Poetry

Summer Bummer, 29 (181.)

When I think of my favorite words,
I think of
minarets spindling,
and
cards riffling,
delicious and pernicious loaves
of bread dwindling,
cloves and gloves that don’t fit perfect,
something etched in twisting strokes
upon a parapet,
anxious jetpack blues,
multitudinous hues,
revelations to lose,
coffee, pizza,

(intimacy?)

sex.

Standard

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