Real Folk Blues

Hey Wakeful Predator

At night we do

the nasty in some other dimension.

Our hairs mingle briefly.

The entire café was one muddy mess

but the back had a garden ceiling

and we kept saying how much we liked the light,

how the light was just right.

It’s a little late now,

all of the books have already been packed.

There are other red sofas in this city;

it’s elementary really.

The whisper jurisdiction ends

as soon as the door opens,

wood drinks wheat.

We could have watered avocado pits,

propped up by toothpicks.

We could have found

somewhere to set the glass.

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