his gaze looks past her window
to a night of white clouds
lit by glowing disaster,
the curious addiction
of his boys skin, an electric anarchy of romance

on the living street, rocks the size of large rooms
fall into elder treetops shattering
into salvation, sparkling
soft plastic explosions, dreams of sex

he bows his head to each neighborhood kid
moving by, he feels in his pocket the evidence
of a girl who grips the hard steel bars of a lovers cage
that can never betray her
and he comes as they worship
in a bed of bliss and matrimony

lights go off,

she waits in a shadow
owned by no one



secret space

Thurston Moore


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