There are places people built that will make one of their own blush, shed tears down fleshy mountain spurs protecting the castles of human lip, the most royal of the features and smile sheepishly out of windows, hoping to meet another kind beast receptive to
this location based songbirding. There are damp bedrooms where girls lay laden in crystals created in torrid plastic mines desperately and dreaming and holding so, so safe. There are places between the home and this place where sister Socrates sneaks around in tight summer plumage to drink down nectar, random and abandoned and moving seventy-five mile long steps. Safe with strangers, so safe. There is water of three sides, against windows but not pouring in- fresh, salt or of the famous low hope slough, endings we desire no more than more fiercely golden things; scotch broom riddling these prairies.
And check out this cutie, singing about heteropatriarchial constructs and virginity.