Soil stuck in stained teeth
Rocks in a deep pocket
My heart in your odd hands
We sweat, roll on the beach
This poem is a waltz
I won’t let you forget
The way we are dancing
the way we toil, strain
or let things go easy
Cling to your voice, your arms
back in the parking lot
naive, or all realness
This Must Be The Place
PLUTO BLOOMING 