Summer’s as above, when you’re so below,
oh, I don’t envy you there, on the path.
Apart by winter, zeppelins in ink down my thighs
and I was for sale, the markings handbills.
So she delighted in wincing meaning from rhymes
that peddled fortunes, interpretations;
tough luck with dreaming, swore one another.
If there’s a breastwork among the courted, she’d lay
intent upon it, write sedum letters
commanding, and disappointed in what they’d say,
she’d bare them with me, sincere to proofread
“to from until ours wasn’t, it’s okay”
and I asked what she meant,
what it all or anything meant,
and with two fiercely lost eyes, she said
“Hagia Sophia, naturally!”
The TV’s luna, north and to plainly draw muse
from both our pressures, something symbolic
or holy. The hills and my clock alarm refused
but she’d seen something, and pored her journal
so I stole in, not a page was bruised
and I asked what she meant,
what it all or anything meant,
and with two fiercely lost eyes, she said
“Hagia Sophia, naturally!”
A concert blew through our bones and bottles, I’d find
it wasn’t whimsy, and it wasn’t prayer
not that I knew it, but I asked her to be kind
when she related, I still believed it:
“rain in my drink, god. Something’s said for light”
and I asked what she meant,
what it all or anything meant,
and with two fiercely lost eyes, she said
“Hagia Sophia, naturally!”
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