drunk musings on a balcony in san franciscodown below, everything has happened.
bars and trinket peddlers,
ticket scalpers and meaning tacked on
to the ends of brief interactions.
this could be paris or new york or perhaps savannah,
georgia. the wrought iron of the balcony buzzes-
this is the buzzing of being--- (fašades)
you can't keep this moment-
it was gone before you gave notice-
before you assigned it
something more than it meant.
Poetry by halfjack
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Written on 2019-04-04 at 02:05
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