What can I say but, oh!
tonight is not the night you will come back to me. i have not been playing mandolin all of my life for this moment when i am twenty- three wearing blue nail polish waiting for carrot cake to cool. it is autumn, the favorite time of year that is not spring or summer when the ground at which we will scratch comes up dusty crescent bowls of fingernail. i couldn’t write poetry or sing so i made cupcakes. grated six roots by hand and ladled out the cinnamon soup not expecting peace but hoping to satisfy some small bodily want in this walk-alone-weather: the tongue’s cut for sweetness, a grain of brown spice window that keeps opening and opening. black dog led the parade today through forsyth once in the morning and then again to tie up the afternoon. i knew him but he did not stop. following…
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