"Is it hell I fear/
or is it the sea."
-Bonnie "Prince" Billy
or the mellow part of fruit between
your lips
it is that love which
holds orange teapots gropes colanders
down
a missing sleep hungers everyone
but yet there love pesters forth
the stone cuts the man pisses
a naive melody is shared between sparrows
and we concordantly are
the fired antique dealers
the third world theramin players
the little spaces left bold
we can spill over later
pithy marathon paper runners we are
a kitten approaching a vanguard
a marmot happening upon a stone
don't let's hurry to return sea-bound
and often if now
the moon says cunt
to a smiling sea
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