Missed Connections

I love the genre

I wrote a terrible poem at least ten years ago about love at first sight, with the image of a haystack made of flare — love so big all the airplanes fly on that love — it is the sun baby
the fury of his touch
far off, as sunspots
that look, a war-monger
as if he knew, had soaped up
involuntary as a haystack
consumed in flares, the heart fleeing,
scattered ashes,
she blinks



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Bonjour de Coeur

Bonjour de Coeur

La France arrachant ses archives à la nuit des temps.