Little Black Dot

i love
how no matter what i do, my soups always wind up like stew. i love evening sun and cigarettes and bean around the world and margaret fucking atwood.
lace collars, pendulums,
the chinese coins i'm going to plait
into my hair when it reaches its appropriate length.
Children of the Yukon.
street lamps and ovulation,
the stones. dry cider.
the fucking summer.
my bike
the foul bay hill
wind on my breasts
sweat in the small
of my back