be reversing her back to the long and short of ire; you know, ire:
its like love but less daft, its the shadow of a laugh and the long wince
from long left flirtations. wench i know your name, it pulses
beside my head when i think i see my phone blink. ire is like that.
say you hate me, see me man myself in wrinkles and crawl into one of them
and squeeze my pain like a glass jar. say that's true, maybe i fiddle to the honey bee,
maybe curtains sting as i put away the sun ....
if she were a cassette she would be in the garage in a box or at the dumpster under
a bunch of lava lamps.
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