QUOSH


HOLLAND
June 2, 2011, 1:41 PM
Filed under: MUSINGS

Fuddled etchings
An unfamiliar bench,

Entangled teenage tongues and brine
A Promise that you couldn’t keep. In time.

Blurry neon. Off/On. Repeat.
Dissecting our shape before the heave of the promenade
Your words seem scripted

Communion.

Drawing on the last drops of April
This place can’t exist.

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