i am intensey and you have left. you have packed up your folding city in a cardboard box and closed it with used suspenders.
you found those suspenders in the back of the goodwill where we'd make out.
we liked the smell of must and lost desires and mothballs and despair.
we liked the smell of broke down cars and long cigarette ash hanging on, hanging on.
we'd fall into piles of winter coats. we'd lose ourselves in down and faux-down and fur and faux-fur and ski pants and little moon boots.
it was the little moon boots that made you cry.
it was the little moon boots that made you cry out.
you are a perv with a folding city in a box.
i tried to change you; i tried to reclaim you. i tried to take your folding city and nail it down, make it permanent, make it stay and flourish and trade with other cities and grow some botanical gardens and attract some noodle houses and change the traffic signs from all caps.
you spent your time sifting through others' cast-offs.
you came out of a rack with suspenders held triumphant, aloft.
you wrested your city back from me. that was hot cos we wrestled some and things got parka-peacoat-snowshoe kinky for a sec.
then it was all over and you packed up.
& i will be a little less intensey & needy if you help out this cool new indie press and buy a chapbook... it doesn't even have to be mine cos it's not always all about me...
yours in a tundra,