Rose 1956

C F G F Sharp hangover, it is Christmas Eve. It fades and evaporates passing the trains and lakes and trees. Your breaths are short and urgent and it is unsettling. You got married when you were 15, 15. Now I hide out from telephone wires at Waxahatchee creek. Your body, weak from smoke and tar and subsequent disease. You got married when you were 15, 15. No miscalculation, each other's only living means. Your arms wane thinner. Your legs surrender. Sunlight probing, it is Christmas Eve. No stitch of shade, we pass by lakes and big Mimosa trees. Your breaths are short and urgent and it is unsettling. You got married when you were 15, 15.