along the lighted corridors he turned and smiled slightly:
that odd thing girls do when they manufacture a crush for a boy that
they don’t really like, or care about. along the pagan corridors
of the forest, and among the thyme and sticky ryegrass he takes
her hand
he presses her fingers carefully to his lips. There are lackluster spirits
inside him; he is all a riot to the swinging, shining ones; he believes
in nothing, everything. The hardest thing: when you are
thinking of someone who is surely not thinking of you; the animated
heroine holds up blank pastel hands
and wails, the stitching inside her mouth undone and made guttural.
so what did you think of the movie he asked.
he has a future: she is still watching boys in black coats
come in from the snow. Wordplay is very cheap,
please reconsider me a good decent liar; all these boys
just fresh blood nightly wiped away from my skull,
their daisies strong inside my curled, clenched hands.
the last pavilion 