Fighting with you
About feminism
On the cactus hill

You think it's a question
Of morals
It's not

Is a different arc

The sun is low
With scraggly branches
Constructs a golden path

On the brush
That is beautiful
That we can agree on


I want to pick the whole thing up
And throw it at the wall.
Like the carcass of an unhatched bird
Big enough to fit the bow of both my arms
Throw it at the wall