I don't know where you hide yours but I hide my selfish ways
In a dank dark cellar. To live underground. To be alive underground.
Strange when we picture someone we can't see in order to love them
Better. To love them, period. I see someone standing, back to me, at
The end of a dusty lane. Dust's needed to complete the picture, to keep
It real, as they say, as someone disappears into a vanishing point before
Appearing again at one's side, looking to see what's holding your gaze.
What's captured your attention, it looks as though the eye of the needle
We thread ourselves through in order to leave is as small as though it
Were nothing's needle. At the very end, there's no struggle. The get-
Away's clean, a wind's gone and blown all the footprints back where
They came from. For how many nights in a row have you not seen the
Moon? How many years have gone by since you last saw your face
Flicker by as you passed nearby a shop window filled with red bees?