i read your weather forcast every week after my own.
our storms that chase each other.
the sticky link.
your eyes like streetlamps that go out.
i sit in a pile with richard. i try to
remember the flowerburgers. his
ladies who wear plastic
fruit on their hats.
my ripe edges start to mush.
swatted by fruit flies.
birds wait at the window
for someone to notice me.
everyone’s hungry
for something.
.
