Blousy guitar I don’t want to count the beats

My pen I have bed hair in the best way Daughter

of sunlight and air and I’m glad you were born

on this day or put another way: that you were

born Let’s be superstars Let’s call each other “suckas”

Turn everything into writing Lord of my Love

and eat new raw oysters with many condiments

to lord & love to be generally great

The flopping flowers that die in a poem

Summer solstice smacks me in the face ridiculous

and I dream the different like a naked sonnet

Your raw throaty laugh submerged under hot noodles

I wrote “valley” when I meant “longing”

Your laugh a river A trout kind of green