Sycamore. Sick, sick, sycamore.
Surrendering yourself to winter sleaze.
A frosty tongue laps up every last leaf
Licks you bare
Exposed to all yes, but oh! so exposed to one
Over the road she'd watch
Shielded with front room double glaze
That was sometimes veiled with muslin
She sometimes wore a bathrobe
Or a Nantucket sweatshirt tucked into size 16 jeans
And a Swatch
Or a necklace
Nikes
Black pumps
Always dressed with desire
Such icy pleasure.
You sycamore
And she wore envy
And sadness
Year after year after year
Until she
was
no more
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