When We Had Things To Say
We make a map in Taos, ‘68,
a hitcher’s guide to the southwest.
In a room with candles,
you wear turquoise in your ears,
wind your fingers in my beard,
we have things to say.
Sangria in a tall glass,
your album and my book;
Dylan makes us poets for a night,
but only one is real.
_Father, send money
and he’ll marry me._
_It was your lie,
but it gets us to L.A._
Inside you is an O’Keeffe flower,
I carve your initials in the wind.
Your taste on my lips, “Not now,”
so I find another time in the back
of a pickup headed to the coast,
when we have things to say.
The sky stops where the desert ends.
This time our fingers separate,
you hide behind a black window.
I’m not there when you break.
_Father, send money.
I’m coming home._
Year:
2016
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I wrote this on reflection of
I wrote this on reflection of another time in my life.
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