Streets

On some dark street stronger than I
We practically gathered enough sense
To mark the drizzle between us;

We drizzled between streets at eleven.
We met half-faced sometimes half-human.
The sweet echo of return,
And to the same spot again
Noting the sour gong of bronze

Under the eyebrow of the brutish conqueror
Of nights – the psychotic clack clack
Of a stick against concrete pavement,

Our reflection truly does not exist,

Nor even the song of the denizen.

Our upheaval sings itself awake
Between bus stops the ink blots through clouds,

Looking at self: the eyes are lost at sea,
Grey/green, slit-winded the sand weathers me down;
And cheek-to-cheek not dissimilar to the iron face,
A surface cast like rusted bronze, as hard as a peach stone.

Delicate mousey eyes like caviar,
We bolt for the door the rain begs for touch,
We hear noises in a twilight Mexican standoff
Makes me love desertion – let me burst!

You carry your eyesight wherever you go,
Giving til now to carry God on your back.
Your shoulders perch and ache arching forward

The bicentennial peace talk with its enemies.
You use the bathroom to escape the desert,
Such moments you hold in your shoes.
Such Kodak moments never hide the moments

Of the diazepam or sloppy vegetable grins.

I awake at 5 am, under sick-pale sky
Weaving through the birds, the sparrow at its prime,
Each scattered pubescent landscape at their own
Herbal scream; the petal echoes

It’s hardly guessed work.