Quaint Shoulder-Things



Chase outlines where the sun is alive:

my shoes become sandy,

my heart already dry.


I’ve always had this resolve but no one gave me credit for it.

She—a tasty temptress all decked out in orange—

A ripe fruit—now ceases to be whole anymore…in time…




We all lose touch. A desert quaint and full of shoulder-things,

with the wind at the back, a storm brewing overhead, we view—

a gale—forget-me-nots and remember-me-backs




They pile about feet—a treading of what we had.

But we don’t talk, hell, we don’t even kiss.

I can’t remember the last time it mattered if we did.


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