the day’s first streetcar
sails past, its sound a low
metal wail —
the window gapes, letting in
spring-scarred positive degrees.
the morning seems to pause,
dark, as if tired
from spinning through the year’s
— sixteen hours
for the dark —
one warmth fitting neatly
speech bleeds the morning
of vagueness, & the relation
emerges as something
: the crusts
of love’s habits.
I shall hand you a bouquet of Molotovs
rather than the vain Rose in red or white.
It is made of glistening gasoline and white fabric flesh which
sit within a green glass stem.
The Daisy is too shielding and does not show
your best. What you need’s a fiery
explosion found inside a Molotov.
Chrysanthemum too does not suit you,
it lacks passion, as seen in the shade
of red that comes from immolation.
So what of the Tulip, fair and fresh as
Primavera? Surely, you are of equal measure?
But no I say, it is still lacking.
We ought best search and continue tracking
the genealogies of flowers to find what
I hold before your eyes. The Molotov, my
dear, so modern, new, unique.
Simply say the word dear
and we’ll set the world aflame.
They can’t take our love
You make my heart sing
You make everything
I like your face
Your face is pretty cool
I really like it
I want to date your face
Let’s do it
On the side-road looking for love
You’re a ten
Too bad you go to Trin
Kickin’ it in your Sperry’s
Drinking tea out of saucers
I’m not kidding
You actually use the china ones
Brought an actual set
To your room