D. J. Dolack
AGE AND HER AND I
It was when we bought a bag of leaves and entered autumn
as suddenly under-scored lovers:
leave fingerprints and get the house dirty. Lived-in.
Now I take two steps in neither direction, ask what here
leaning across the seat at sixty-eight miles per: myself
and her, with confessions of missing dusk
This is what happens when you take two poems you don't like, that are about the same girl, and smush them together. Actually, this is what happens when you take a million poems you don't like, that are about the same girl, and smush them all together.