!!!

the trails of the shaken

small houses; the cows

that mooed us thru the

ivy; ur sister & the

soakingness & the stream

of her ears after

she discovered

nakedness to u in the

south. so now, whisper the

tender moonshine of 

the story to me;

ur hips bucking in

unison with her hips

bucking in unison; how

it never really mattered

what u did & where with

anyone in the room as 

long as it was dark compared

to daytime. & in the bottom

of the trees that sprout

white like he did clamping

into you like u did clamping into him

like unison again u scream

the keebler elfs awake ur feet

caked in the bottom

of the green, ur painted 

body so dirty on the clean

bed. here, it is the tender moonshine

again. here, he kisses

two stories into u & neither

one holds a bed which eats

thru u for 2 days without 

warmth again. & in the shaking

small house it is ur memory

& saint paul de vence some

day, the grass of your feet 

evaporating in a place

where ur favorite author 

discovered americanness

with brown beams

telling him smthn abt