And I’m asking you to hold me just like the morning paper.
Pinched between your pointer, your index and your thumb. It’s a semi-automatic, believers are ecstatic. You see the way they cling, the cold metalic sting. I’m living in a coma for Donna DeVorona, this harness made of hopes, the lovers on the ropes.
Nun is to church as the parrot is the perch, and my heart’s
wide
o
pen,
truuu——ly.
