Admitting what you love makes you bolder stillKate Schapira
Will you say I should’ve looked up in that city. I never did? An easy one. We’ll start with it. Big trees and paperwork, a node in the brain feeling: Write these poems now. Voice of the node coming along shaped like a cauliflower head shot with lights. You my old counterpart. My heart’s in pretty good shape except that I react to your messages with lies. Your loving embracing old robes mouth around you—maybe (I remind you of this gently) there’s a belt to remind them? I your counterfeit bill with corner gone expecting a later validation and regeneration. The true self, the node, waits for love. What will you love without analysis? What will you learn or do? You’re not just me, worn out. Your robe’s different, cute as a button—a bug’s ear— your eyes turned down. Will you say I should’ve asked him for it out loud? This version of you is very close, a caul over her eye. I bet you still stoop for buttons. That’s how I’ll draw your lucky portrait.
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