these things always seem to happen to me
in the front seats of motor vehicles
When heat strangles the air
pushes moments upon my acned skin
and lets manufactured relief rest on feet
that walk abandoned sidewalks at midnight intervals
these are silent moments
when I laugh to myself and say
‘that’s not going to happen,’
but then the gesture opens up-
fragments of sharp light brush my forehead
and the scenery changes
like a good healthy surge of reckless sport
it hits like an arrow that cannot be pulled from the flesh
and I note the red marks on your neck impressed by want
a week after consumption
/back room glass canisters filled with tales of you by my side/
we meet again
You will take note of oncoming traffic and quietly ask me for relief
which will drown out the silence that sits between us
and often gets lost at traffic lights