, , , ,

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.