Georgia Lundeen

There are no more ways to feed me.

I wrote you the most beautiful bowl of fruit;

but my words were twisted up in

the flames of your

blue-lip fire:

nodding its heads under

their bodies.

Cooking.

Don’t cry.

We are made up of the same piece of sky.

And I can’t leave, you can’t leave,

we’ve tried; and

we’ve tried to mix up our miseries

and we can’t even do that right.

I will look for you

in the crowd of my personali