left on clark, right on spring, brackett, dow, congress.
repeat every sunday, the familiarity of the west end
sound more like our strangest hymns. you’re right-
the coffee here isn’t as good. there is no community like ours,
no anarcho-poet vegan pancakes. new sleepy hands,
the church I’ve replaced you with. how sincerely you wished
I would make music of you, you gentle yet hungry child.
you constant flicker, you fire-mouth. you must have known
our neverland wouldn’t last- every fool grows up eventually.
and weren’t we something like that? half-wit, half-lit
fireflies, circling each other’s sweetness in the night?
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