Love poets are terrible lovers
By Jessica Orr
Standing in the middle
of a past,
all here is growth
of something that barrels
ahead.
I heard somewhat tense,
cut by breeze and friend;
what is perfect bestows trust,
a fallacy of gravest concerns.
In the moment,
it's never the same;
it can be stuck,
a blind wind;
and Langley sits
under sandwich
in eyes of kryptos-
the mystery (she's fucked up);
the chase (users never change);
the math (you lost your chance);
the funny part (she's mostly gay)
the sidewalks rivet
if again a generation
never knew a hopscotch;
a writer would know
the ink is dried up.
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Copyright 2015 Jessica Orr