geoffrey smalls jr, III
five days? avoid the wooded route, avoid a brief weep of water in the pot, a baggie for your grievous thoughts, to wrap the arm around its netflix queue. days get fluffier until it boils over; the arbitrary beginning with that dream; that empty genie. i know how it will go (complete). i know how it will go. he goes with our fair assignment--hold fast across the tiny knuckles of that quick quick. pooling things begin to question; be still our wonton frozen vegetables and our belief systems. we can not bury it; we can not stop our small kissing for the blatant sun. what returns when one has not begun. this poem is about the last kitten; this poem is about saturday afternoon.