Brown stains on your fingers. Walking past the pretty houses, tangling sour your head in trees. This town failed its nosebleeds.

You have to close the tags yourself, skipping jewels off the lake, off of Mary’s white body heating onions in the same room, and it’s your editor, escaping lines walking through theory’s pretty houses, brown stains in your beard. Chunky mexican kid riding bike across bridge eyes you apparently. This is only an approimation.

Everyone born on a lake has yearning.