Hot Hood
Published in
1 min readNov 10, 2016
What blossoms then
In the rude oblique hollow
Of the night
If not
Our clutch of desire unsullied
By any sound whatsoever — None?
I can name seventeen flavors,
Sadness to tears,
While you stand on top of the blue Impala.
barefoot, waving,
To the airplanes flying high,
high, high, high,
In the sky.