there lost in the riot of my own stupidity,
red & beating while the engine cools
& the sunset fucks off: nothing
is ever about a shared experience. such perfumes
jostle for position in ‘memory’, the concept album.
you could smell it the factory was value-adding
on cue the barometric pressure drops & you,
so beautiful when captured, even with gaze
averted, a preternatural model of engagement:
she sits on a bench an illustration of being alive.
stop sign graffiti as local route marker – my senses
specific & always at fault, giftwrapped like a gift.
is this an ending? i’d crave more abruptness &
a three act resolution. toes to mingle under cover,
a dawson’s creek light coastal wind parting
your hair, a final admixture of fingertips…
all just the anecdotal padding or
sticky tape or something else.