outside this car, the endwe are in the library, but notreally there is a stack of books that we like to hide behindnone of it by any poet we likeit is triumphant in neither sound nor staturebut the words erupt from my throat in rapturebecause i need youi will never admit this with closed woundsbut while they bleed, i am vulnerable and you are beautifuli want to put you in my pocket and take you to