all these words that i write. these things that won't sit down long enough to name. are about so much sex and violence. html coding. and squirrels.

maybe,

sometimes love isn't so much hands and butterscotch pudding.

after all.

dear isabelle,

there's an antenna

in the attic

locked up

and pointed

straight

in your direction

i keep switching on the telly

nights

to see

mostly

there is just

faint static

and loneliness

but i keep waiting

always,

imogen.

in the front room
it is always
seven fifty-one
am