tonight in
jeff's red car which was rushing across the king avenue bridge in the dark, full of us singing along to "downtown train," i suddenly remembered that i never wrote the poem with the coins in it.
dear ericka, do not forget to write the poem with the coins in it.
(i like jeff's i-am-tom-waits voice, howly in all the right places.)
dear people who are never going to read any of my poems anyway, it is only fair to give you a disclaimer, which is that if i write a line about people who "greedily collapse to the floor / to light into a new fig" it is not about sex. digging into pieces of fruit with your fingers, or sitting in a pink bathtub with a girl, or spreading out your body over the new snow: not about sex. but if i write a cold, fine thing about a coin collector, it is.
take that, kittens.
