Gold Strike
You were so soft on the bed neon blue hair sandalwood incense six feet tall legs like a panther’s luscious forest I drowned inside your Chanel all in a night that led me to Sunday dawn thumb out on Highway 160 leaving Jackson with a case of deep Syrah frame backpack memories of that night it couldn’t have happened the pickup truck driver wanted a bottle of course I gave him one who wouldn’t my journals strewn across miles of melting asphalt Monday had to show up at training camp in Chula Vista I’m seeing things unverifiable they say it’s my life’s climate change yet I’m stuck wondering if seas re-freeze and glaciers rebuild themselves without human intervention.
Comments
Post a Comment