red cars go by
just whooshes in the exhausted wind
the sun poses for the watercolorist, politely, then hurries down to its little death
and there’s a telephone pole
just outside his window that I’ve never seen,
never had the presence of mind to notice
“I love you.”
once of honey, dripping off his lower lip
now so stale that the moths fly about it
but they’ve nothing to do with me, this kind
I follow the flame
crumbs could never sustain me