so i know that i am a weeping lark, falling over the heavens in excess. kissing armpits of lyricists of ages past…my throats are full, having fallen past all the pure pleasures of sound. is this the same as spring?
the falling past and falling apart like applause of rough, roughened kisses, fingers that breathe like a tongue laid on lips
in the ending hours of sunlight? stealing all the root of betrayal?
sometimes i know the rivers smile at me as if they understand
my vague assertion into the world. trying to insinuate myself into
this complex context, among strangers, in a foreign language.