Twinkle
I’ve never claimed or even wanted to be a worthy poet. But you have to do something with the brain while you jog through a humid evening. Thus:
Seneca smells like meat
and I’m beggin’ the sky
to bleed
rain to cool the skin
and wash away
pollen.
I see grey clouds up above
and fireflies blinkin’ love;
Juj you cross my mind
and the memories are kind.
Has another storm come yet
to the house on Lafayette?
I blow a kiss your way
until Saint Patrick’s Day.