by | Jun 11, 2024 | Issue Thirty-Nine, Poetry

Murder Boyfriend parks.

Moves a turtle from the road.

The gulch marks a course of untried knives.

Attentions make him skirt mad.

He’s distracted.

These distinctions

I won’t bore you with. 

Hung up on married women.

Love is a hidden hitch

below the Tommy gate 

mattered in bird shit.

The air retches with chimes.

This is about the end of March.

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