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Description
i.
Someday maybe they’ll find a way
to pin every piece of a moment
and share it in the clouds,
but they haven’t yet
so I have to write you the sticky weight
of a summer night drive on I-40,
alone with the music and the lightning bug
still glowing green on the windshield.
There’s the scent of sun-baked honeysuckle,
sweet in the cooling dark,
and the so-Southern smell of cowshit,
the earthy green
that makes nostrils instinctively contract,
but there’s nothing
quite like
the low tide mud funk
of my sun-dyed, muddy barefeet childhood
to bring home-tears to my eyes.

ii.
“You’ve got quite a reputation
around here” Caleb tells me,
like I haven’t heard it before,
like it has something to do
with the indignance in his voice
when he says I “never made time”
to fuck him, too,
like it wasn’t the reason I hated
this tidepool of scuttling ignorance
before some distance made me miss my midnight ocean.

iii.
Connor still hasn’t learned to light a cigarette
in the wet wind off the intracoastal,
and I still don’t mind giving him mine
and lighting another,
smiling around the filter as he curses.
It’s like being underage again,
this aimless sober rambling
through streets quiet with the orange buzz of lights,
and the bittersweet cynicism of him,
the giving and the giving of him
stirs a lust
for the brackish taste of his skin,
for the ocean inside him that would hold me
and ask nothing from my hunger.
I heel the bitch, light another cigarette,
wait for it to pass.
We keep walking, restless legs syndroming,
until the sky’s blue lightens
and it’s time to go home.

Description
i.
Someday maybe they’ll find a way
to pin every piece of a moment
and share it in the clouds,
but they haven’t yet
so I have to write you the sticky weight
of a summer night drive on I-40,
alone with the music and the lightning bug
still glowing green on the windshield.
There’s the scent of sun-baked honeysuckle,
sweet in the cooling dark,
and the so-Southern smell of cowshit,
the earthy green
that makes nostrils instinctively contract,
but there’s nothing
quite like
the low tide mud funk
of my sun-dyed, muddy barefeet childhood
to bring home-tears to my eyes.

ii.
“You’ve got quite a reputation
around here” Caleb tells me,
like I haven’t heard it before,
like it has something to do
with the indignance in his voice
when he says I “never made time”
to fuck him, too,
like it wasn’t the reason I hated
this tidepool of scuttling ignorance
before some distance made me miss my midnight ocean.

iii.
Connor still hasn’t learned to light a cigarette
in the wet wind off the intracoastal,
and I still don’t mind giving him mine
and lighting another,
smiling around the filter as he curses.
It’s like being underage again,
this aimless sober rambling
through streets quiet with the orange buzz of lights,
and the bittersweet cynicism of him,
the giving and the giving of him
stirs a lust
for the brackish taste of his skin,
for the ocean inside him that would hold me
and ask nothing from my hunger.
I heel the bitch, light another cigarette,
wait for it to pass.
We keep walking, restless legs syndroming,
until the sky’s blue lightens
and it’s time to go home.