There is an anemic embrace on the street.
A kiss is thrown, meets another, drops to the sidewalk and goes for a tumble.
You warn of tight clouds that wriggle like armyworms,
A form of algebra suicide, I guess. I want to telephone the sailors,
Curse their songs of gasoline as the light in the booth turns me hideous.
I want to become hydraulic. Hit the newsstands, national exposure,
Feel the world crawl into me through the fingers as the traffic outside locks, stops, and goes soft.
I want to talk about milk, about the invisible bones of the face,
About this brain that sits too close to the skin.
While I hear you tell me we could be chainsaws under the stars.
Under what stars?