head quarters

the if that you and I share,
small licks of time that drip like ice cream in heat
-too quick-
and s l o w,
like thick, rich cream moves,
free to roll but wed always to the past, its aftertaste a sweet indulgence
when the present salty

sleep whale

compost

sentimental break
ing,
breathing, cracking
ex
hal
a tion

that paints a cover
thick like pancake batter we deep fry in the liquid of Forget.

oh, and I eat you
the sweet fruits of yesterday
and all the yellowing
auburn sunsets that last night cost nothing

and today I would sell
a crippled limb for.