time, to cry and talk, and
then we fight, lay into each other
like nobody's business.
I pierced the box on purpose,
last night, not really out of anger,
but today I lost it, threw it hard
against the range. We carried on,
This isn't a fucking poem.
I forgot my boots and had to come
all the way back here, for them,
but the traffic was better and so was the music,
the second time around. I love old country.
I made a good run, once or twice missed
my lens, while quick billows of pink rose high
above the cool blue shadows, the light
as yellow as something I once knew
as home. On the way back I decided
to take the new bridge, and cross
where I could look upstream
at the setting sun, and every breath of it
was more beautiful than my last...sky on fire,
the city spectacular, my heart still
pounding, we are more beautiful than we know,
and let us never speak of this again.