Those flower pistils shoot photons hottie so so
don’t is that dust drugs corners lips yours move
me laminated maps stand half out the dirt
together we commented on it already as if living
our last hours in some crypt fallen down all over
roads to bright conversation tarps festive hangars
talks where I had to point it out to you again
it was collapse it that our heads fishtailed at
to make you care for my long hard my wish
romantic in all things pathetic sore worn palm
yours as a mother on kid’s nape makes one go on
possibly in the same town to know you will lie
you find in time the principle of the purse an alert
just atoms never have to decide the gestures seen
from loitering boys probably in the same town
because care is not for you but hurt harder snap
the clasp then you get a sharp look in the theater feel
that two-year-old condom that free religious coin
grey dawning on you in at least one thousand colors
it is morning I am near learn from your phone
a name like rat bastard curry evil billy burns
they of precious memory record store cashiers
whiter than their tube sock above knee
they come up and help me remember 1973
putting it in and out of memory boxes for them
bruises that put us on notice of alleys blocked off
so will you roll up in a rug with me pull the ski masks
down we are falling we fall without one sound

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)