we have forty five mutual friends and then none at all;
we’ve defriended our vices and edited out our embarrassments.
come, let us leave for ireland by way of iceland where
all of the promotional placards on the mta will turn into hot springs,
two bodies not fit for such a sight so we throw our iPhones into– a geyser!
as if we spotted a whale on a watch smelling of sunscreen and expectation.
you will mention Bjork and i’ll mention Bushwick because of Bjork
but we will be so far away from that place where an apartment
with a sliver of light and a religious iconographic candle sitting on a windowsill ushered us into a false sense of adulthood. there will be
land greener than our mistakes, where sadness exists like mists,
where faeries anoint us, where our children don’t give us a moment
to indulge in anxieties of the time we past trashed. i was told
the sunset smells of sandalwood and rose.