Let the poems teach me how to leave them.
I’d watch the beautiful people passing by on the street
and march like the sun into your name, my new love.
It happens, it happens, it is happening now,
a fire that doesn’t loathe kitsch.
Because if the hot eyes of night are kitsch,
and hair pulls the evening’s trigger, that’s fine with me!
Sound the trumpets, send out the doves!
An idiot’s decided to reject sadness,
sold himself for porridge on a sunny day.
If only the poems would teach me how to leave them.
Live.