it’s cold, it’s cold, it’s cold. and i am packing clothes according to where they are going or not going.
oh, move. oh, everything smelling like autumn in the land of cowboys and flannel and bunnies. a river runs through it, through me. through the wheat-framed sky at the back of my mind.
oh, forthcoming tryst in massachusetts with that filmmaker and his nor’-easterly swimming holes.
oh, driving up through every goddamn city on the east coast and then west across all the purple mountains in all their purple majesty.
oh, typewriter for whom i must order a ribbon: get ready to hit the road.
