Mail in November. Someone has put his sweater on properly. The sand. Like another night where everything was lol lol and hectic screaming in the distance. The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. A bare piece to chew on, that is what poetry is like down to the smallest details. You in my window, on my window sill.

My one pen is red and the other is black. The words tear into the innermost. Figs on the ground.