My mustache tastes of cigarettes
An egg with salt, alone in the moon
I wake up three days distanced from you
Your lassos of hair bowering me, alone
My room lassoed, a red balloon in the shower lassoed
My three days of loneliness walking the state fair alone
All things lassoed, your hair wrapped around my big toe
Like a red balloon, in cold blood in the moon
Two stand up basses for the soundtrack, like
Prize pigs, like decorative cabbages, two mirrors
Facing each other in the open wood of churchpews
Open from years of asses of hymns of eyes, open like
The old guitar I play like a bass beside you, as you
Drive to kansas to see the moon
— Tom Will is a poet and has a Twitter account