only spit and maudlin buds of shitty prose, a blueberry scone, a melancholy morning reading Henry Miller, if I could resurrect him now from the curve of each letter, (what if I could resurrect a dead love? he's not really dead though, the one with Brando's spine...), I imagine he would wear sex and sunshine in his eyelashes...and you and I, we'd float around in an orange bowl paradise, with Bosch's strawberries in mind or the lint and what-is-it's from your bed, we'd wear our skin, i'd slip you on like a stocking and pull in tight;

but
you drank my words
before I could speak them,
and you were sliding, sliding,
we rippled a'many against the pillow