September 2010
5 posts
Streets just busted into her own apartment. WHO GON’ MESS?
Fall: Prelude
When the heat (not yet stifling) barely whistles or spits - a distant steamy comfort - on those nights, barely there, your hands, holding wrenches, your secular fists call to me in dreams. We flip and switch; the house teems; she flinches, I shift. The radiator skips.
