blood orange slices

i want to live in a construction of fiber and guitar strings woven together and balsa wood because there is no wind and there are thistles, and honey and we drink good beer and whiskey and swim in the creek and see the mossy rocks in the water and live on them and in them and he is there and you are there and she is there and the rooms are all small and full of books and old leather stuff with tobacco and our best stories are pinned to the walls and it is september eternal, we sleep outdoors and awake, entangled and dewy in the morning only to have days of cursive letters and typewriter keys and humming while you whistle or moan. we don't have to fight or wrestle. we have no fear if wearing our hearts on our sleeves, because our chests are pinned open and exposed and beating. we just live with what we are - skin and hip bones, relying on arteries and never again batteries. all fabric there is old, all faces soft, and we will all stay there until something sets the fields on fire and then we will stay until we can no longer see the moon, for the smoke has put us to sleep