lilac, sunrise. when did fall stop being
pumpkins, golden roads?
when did i get here, there is no song
to prove me right
hide inside my binary fate
the faint glow of twelve o'clock
rolls around again, sweat waiting
to well up in my forehead, chin
i am no twenty-five thousand winner
actor, poet, writer
so all i have is this paper bag
called next year and i shove it on my head
and kiss the mirror
wish it were a window to tumble out of
into fictional cities with laundry, golden roads
and pumpkins.
god, i miss myself.
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