YankeyDoodles

he asked for poetry and she breathed out the alphabet in tune, scribbles on tile-table walls and empty fumes hand-held lighters on the edge of giving up    structure faded - but the white-out is a certain kind of paint, and she forgets                why he is there - "this is poetry but I am not a part of it,"            she thinks a drop on the edge of insanity hanging,         bleeding drip, drip into the fading sun and he just sits there, says, "that's beautiful,"   and thinks: "I didn't understand a fucking thing                         she said