Rush Hour

 

Intricate subway
lace– Liquid
decorations.

I am not preparing
for wedding.
For those slow songs.

The coffee and puke and orange soda streak
numerous madonnas across
these dark floors.

Some people stop
to revere, to take
pictures. Touring.

I have become one.
The image. The object.
The flushed face.

The eyes all over
the body. And the hands.
Weaving in and out.

 

 

 

Motion and Color &

 

The sky is swooping
and I’ve got a grass-fed
ache over here.

This orange heart is far
from water.

Flame-length
in this field. Yours.
This vision.

But maybe I can’t know anything
             besides ocean.
                           Beside it,
                                       I’m salty and bright.

That roll.

The trees shake and blush.
The point we stare toward
dizzies.

What happens when
you’re my ride.

 

 

 

 

 

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