I.


i am having concrete glass visions
of rubbing secret caramel bellies with you,
here in my unclothed hesitations.

we rearrange amps artfully on tan interior,
aesthetically tuck yours next to mine, share
bent cigarettes, quarrel over who did what to whom
& where & i

am knee deep in buddha's belly
falling into delusions of vertigo
wilting like last year's crinkled red cellophane
tucking teeth between eyelids & simmering, imagining

the sweet slippery scent of your mess
coagulating with her insides.


II.


we are the last of the troubadours,
sipping plum puckered nostalgia & waiting.

11:07 in the day. discarded seatbelts methodically soundtrack
this highway escape as we mint julep toward I-75.
empty rolling rock bottles squirm over carpet like lexington junebugs,
wings plowing pile in single file line like this

is the first day of school & stories of summer are waiting
to shoot all glittery-eyed from their necks.

i myself, communicate in metaphor. tap knuckles on steering
column. admit there are no formulas for understanding my language of
eyelash, collarbone, lip taste, side glances & hands
holding on in unfamiliar places when the jittery feeling sets in.

there is talk of guttural salvation, divorce &
what might happen to the baby sixteen years from now when
her legs begin to root for ground & all these withheld mumblings
fall dead-leaf style around her feet.

you are wondering if all this is necessary.
if the smell of cigarettes or her on your fingertips
might propel me into tears

or some kind of primal scream which finally wakes up
the neighbors, which finally, ferociously, furiously breaks through skin &
forces me to spit rubies, shed jewels, unleash the stained glass
intricacy of my insides

which has been hiding 7 years now & waiting
to turn a brighter, wiser shade of ochre


III.


one thing's for certain:

we are two lost little somethings in a universe of
confessional glances, drunken compassion

twiddling our thumbs
uncovering real &

sometimes, sometimes
the dreaming just never




s t o p s .