hidden creek that only we and half the city have found!
A Frank O'Hara poem! I wish to taste oranges
when we kiss.
Everyone is in the same places. All the good
rocks are taken. The strangers meet over and over.
The pattern of missing you only to reunite. The
drunk boy tries to kiss Lora again.
You don't taste like oranges. You don't show up. You don't
like my bars, my diners, my lakes,
my creeks, my parks, my long walks, my car
doesn't start when you're in the passenger seat.
We go no where. I keep sacrificing one person
for another. I keep men stacked in the medicine cabinet.
My hair falls into your mouth. I write declarative statements:
I would not cut my hair for a man.
