Tiny drop of water running down the wistful valley…
her spine, my spine and the spine of a rained evening.
I see herons…I see her; walking by the edge of this bed,
I see a blue towel and a blue mind full of functioning clocks.
I wish this sky full of nothingness could be naked with us,
I wish for a cat,
the last beer from the last penny…
but I wish a sheet crumpled by the waves of her ass more.
Her head between my legs…my insanity between her thumbs,
navigation is relentless and killing is a poem during fall.
A knock on my door…her hair blocking my feudal sight…
Women…women…women
When she is here I guess I don’t need the compass to find the ejaculations of my existence…
I sleep inside her quantum breathings.
Shit! She can’t be kidding with her meditating tits anymore.

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Photograph: Elle Hanley.