She smelled of Spring and red heather
Her jeans unzipped.
The first three buttons of her blouse unbuttoned
She wore powder pink sneakers
And her laugh sounded like a pedal harp in soft rain
Sunday morning 7 am:
He was hung over quoting his own demented poetry and Rimbaud’s and Chuck D’s.
He scrawled: Fuck capitalist sex !
Above the urinal and opened the roof window :
The stars flashed into view like silver tongued bats licking the skies
With threads of pure lovesick light.
Art by Unitas Quick