By H. R. Webster
talking nonsense into the down you call me your horse girl because I am big & blond and simple in my cruelty. your cruelty anything but simple—feathers clutch your collarbone— you like to smoke grass and talk about the hearts I had broken. I could never Love you you say hands at the whisper of my hem. I could never make love to you they pass the solemn hollows of my knees.
Copyright 2015 Webster