throw your television out the window
Christ, beautiful Chris destroyed.
and all passengers pass anonymously by
-a moving solution for such friends of hours
that are broken.
an illusion that i could smell her passed by my ear,
passed by my nose.
an illusion that she was simple to find
and wrong, riding with the front of the bus (not at the front)-
down a hardening of molten streets in downtown lights.
under a lie,
rests the dry pampas.
There are roads where most are lost to understand......
wet as the drive,
a dog attacked me in a way that was a precocious
reflection of a summation
of hey Auckland boys in refuge
remains something of her voice
the yellow tone of her skin.
the intellectual innocence that she possesses.