Mar. 31st, 2014


Mar. 31st, 2014 09:11 pm
Low engine hum. Your scent. Circle K and Seven Eleven and BP and a-and nameless yellow sodium lamped oases with their tile mold and insects spring hesitant in half disbelief, like us, that winter passes, loosens grip, that winter forgives, eventually, lifts the curse of the long night, unveils... Unveils. To pasture and distance, to furred things nursing smaller furred things, to predator and scavenger alike, to moth and night bloom and your face illuminated by instrument panel, by moonlight, by the Real Sun, by your own reflection scattered, recollected, perfected by accidents of nature, by the hand of god, by time and rain and sleepless nights. Lips and eyelashes. Seconds, fractions, of momentary sculpture.

Above me, below, wrapped, beaded sweat steamed blankets, feline and cumulonimbus hissing thunder(strike dear mistress and cure his heart) through those lips, through those lips. And I am branded, marked invisibly and obviously, and those lips are mine and those cries are mine and I would both kneel and bless at once, both master and supplicant- us humans, us divinities, mapping the trackless spaces between, keeping time with heartbeats and breath.

We stood between worlds, littoral newborns. Salt, crash, immensity, arm wrapped, sinking slowly. We stood between worlds and began crafting. Sculpting. Writing. Mapping.

Low engine hum. My last northward leg and I pretend, convince, believe, that you wait there in the corner of my eye. Feel your regard, sit up straighter, resist glancing over. Smile at traffic. Light a cigarette, window down, press play. Pass the slow Sunday sedans, pass the sleepy truckers, salute the troopers, lean in to your touch and ask

"Where to?"


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