To Alexandra

Sleeping in sunflowers with momma’s school-girl grin. To better friends, and better interests still. Bird-legged stilts that seem to walk on cue they go and come, become the better of the sub-debut. (And high society I hope, just isn’t you) To not remember means to simply do, and animals remember not at all. But you and I? Between us is enough. Or maybe just myself, yourself, and we the laurel losers of the bluff to be And I’ll be just the same and disagree. And who’s to speak the dogma of result? My momma sleeps in sunflowers And I don’t think you do. So much the better for the youngest brew Since nothing about either is adult. I’ll be the same, and hateful as I want. It’s better than to be the eunuch bones you wear around your bust of lust subsiding to objective lust. It’s mine to build and probably mine to wreck I swear that we aren’t quite so eerie yet.