Old roses’ rough mouths
Chasing a lake far away
As my mother’s house -
Cast out – on every line
we feed each other
to hook some fish you’ll then cook us for dinner.
A salted drought.
Growing up – like when you say I’m appreciated
and so are the flowers and then you learn.
We’re just charming each other from the basket,
in the evenings when we turn our feelings on or off.
Bottles, bottles, bottles -
maybe one will finally set sail with
what I’d really love to tell you,
washed up on
a shore of yourself,
like when we first met,
or now on your grudge I brought,
but I still haven’t kissed you there yet.