i climb mountains now. those within a dayâs drive
of my home. at the top & of the past &
now none of this is what i meant.
having not noticed the sunsets in a while.
this thought meaning we are through. that thought
meaning more, akin to the final gasp of a screenwriter,
tacky, clichÃ©d, blankly lewd.
where were we when control was wrested?
part of a plaid montage, a featherweight bout no doubt,
me shrieking gorse bush blues & calling it âsongâ.
things are just like in the movies, see.
this fleet foxes soundtrack & a breeze are a sort of proof.
your sexy tattoo & the duplicitous story beneath
guide my private jet through re-entry, through this
alley with shrubs, a slide into town wherefore iâll keep
all romantic processes loose now: cuddle myself
kiss girls, but only faceless, in the dark
weâd absorbed so much were
more somber than a sea captainâs wife
(one lamp plus her figure a wan shadow
seemingly swallowed in grey paintâ¦)
in this way we are none of us commutersÂ Â Â Â Â or alone
but at the same time, i donât like you.
weâre not close enough. she said.
do you understand?