Yellows leave fall on the sidewalk, so the storeclerk sweeps.
Yellow leaves tumble past my weeds. My landlord emerges yellow
in a gold Camry. Down a camera creek of Mercurys a sleek
Continental glides. Content in a rental, with a panda on his back
a man passes. He makes a pass, pauses, the sun in his mouth. He has
hurt teeth. Off-yellow, fall. Trees leave. The storeclerk weeps.
The Writing on the Wall
'There are no words.'
That's my camisole I wear for sleeping.
Would you like to see your present now, or
later? I don't want to be another story, you
know? You mean you won't wanna hang out before
you go? You're a real prince!
'I miss you, but I
not to.' Not our miscue
or toes that winter,
in the shower.