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