Love Sunday and trombone players, delirious
above-ground serenades, the in between dance
and next Sunday with flowers, heart through
March and into May. But someone has to
knock at the door sometime. Then, off to
the palace of the GrandeVisir, probably in
Afghanistan. My lover is Zero, once so happy
at the organ grinder. A vaguely erotic
dance with no men or only a man.
Kiss my bonnet. I'm dead