I.
The truth is:
you never could stay sweet,
bouncing and boundless,
on the balls of striped feet.
II.
Soft water in the driveway,
molly in the back,
a xylophone in my throat,
and a keyboard in your
cracking knees.
III.
At seven thirty on Sunday morning,
we pressed our noses
to each other's necks,
and convulsed for cold.
IV.
I didn't want a thought
in my netting brain.
Not of the bills we can't find
ways to pay,
or the flacked and
fraying ends of choices we can't
seem to make.
V.
Tangled in chlorine,
splintering our eyelids,
ectopic on cigarette sheets.
VI.
(I didn't want a thought).
