Maybe we were raised by the internet..hmm.
I’ve lost interest in the
undergrowth of neglect,
the neurosis of this boy-man
prospectus, the scruff
of our zany disconnection.
I’ve laid my head down along the hard
road and slept in an autoshop
of tricks and tactics.
Still as forever lays dead,
I am anchored in you
as we grow slow and blue,
like a bleeding pond.
Why I Write
It is best to keep these slender
wrists at work, these spindle thumbs
occupied well into the night’s
lush hours, and certainly these long
ringless fingers wrapped around cold
metal spilling ink as I will
when the steam heat bellows despair
across the vacant house.
I never want to know her name,
your bad angel of all those secret
twilights—not about her smooth
browned knuckles or seamless palms,
not even about the static of her touch
when you first met her, not the soft cut
of her nails across your scalp.
When all else is black
I have my hands,
white, bare, and dual
as they are, freed to bury
that one frantic embrace by yours
beneath the bar lights,
far in the past.