my friends, my sweet barbarians,
there is that hunger which is not for food —
but an eye at the navel turns the appetite
A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet—
for Alton Sterling, Andrew Loku, Philando Castile, et al.
I wanna live, son. But which son are you?
There where the rivers are made
of moonshine and the lights still wait,
Would I have seen her?
The tide tugging her gently past
the Comfort Inn; houses, tall and gabled,
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
Random Link Clicker.
Royal Bath Taker.
Receiver of Foot Rubs and Praise.
Coin Exhibit, British Museum.
Their misshapenness strikes the table in tiny splashes,
like still-cooling splatters of silver. Stater and shekel,
Queen and King, they rule side by side
in golden thrones above the clouds.
Her giggle and wide eyes remind him
It was down that road he brought me, still
in the trunk of his car. I won’t say it felt right,
but it did feel expected. The way you…
Wild Nights — Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be