here

how is it that I have a spread of cards, posted from your shore
to me and I've not sent one thing back,
I'm sorry for my lack baby, this thing's consumed me here
in the home that's not, without a certain you
I'll be a better form of man, given over to
the proper pursuit of us

parking

if i find you, out on the river slick,
the father plane, a right there rock,
i'd say 'see, see how I am' and you might
cock one wet ear and laugh
through dark ringlets a yawning mouth
the horror at that red, those lips,
still kiss-printed on a card
I keep in my wallet, that's yours
7 years on, they're still here - how
tacky these dark forensics and my
sweet secret darling, near 8 years passed