Holiday (Or: Standing on the corner of Western and Wall after hanging up on You)

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this is where We meet in

my mind-the flipbook folly of flipflops

and glass bottle mountaintops and

 

this is where You hide in

my heart-among the sweet salt

of Missing You and Meeting You and

Mangling You and

 

this is where I sleep til I’m safe.

shock me, stranger. my faith is in there (somewhere) in

the back black corners of American sewage

 

noel and I slept through the static.

beautiful morning, wasn’t it?