Wednesday, September 28, 2016

the days all bled dry: a theory

you in the frozen
sunlight, dreaming of pilate, of
wide open spaces

dreaming of dylan, his
tongue nailed to a bible, his
hands on fire, and this had to
have been ’64 or ‘65

both of us starving at a
leaf-covered table in some
november back yard

both of us golden and one of us
stoned, and i was trying to
tell you i loved you

needed you to understand you
were my one true goddess
in the age of despair

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