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up in the air
ever dreaming of elsewhere. my head is a hot air balloon. the world is too small. who can say what a poem comes to be? on the roof, nearly a year since we’ve separated, i see your long blonde hair and the way it frames your snaggletooth laugh. i shake my hair in the LA
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olive garden
red wine in a short glass like uncle Ted.i stand in the going sun and dream againof Italy. ah, ah! it will never be the same.
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selected poems by Lyndsay
i finish the last of James Francoa story in PALO ALTO about Yosemite…the falls and candles and the burning skeletonand how to make babieswe are at Will Rogers beach, Lyndsay is lyingin the sand without a towel under her.she came out of the water and just lied there andturned over like a chicken breast trying