A virgin afternoon and the sky looks impossible.
A bloated Olds is the only animal moving.
Lifting higher than any of the all you've never
You tighten tighter and the night passes over.
Movies of you. Strange plays where the ending
Sinks into the soft fat middle and then
Disappears there. Long stale afternoons on
Guitar. All the pieces are secret,
Hiding behind each other like little girls in dresses.
Movies of you. Cruises the parking lot, peruses
The staid infinity of empty spaces.
The moon is a fig for everyone else to pluck
When they're hungry later, after sex,
Say. And that other moon, the one that's fixed
To where the shopping plazas crest
Above Lee Highway, that one must be
Just a figment of your equations, a you-balloon
Called up for public judgment, zero-shaped, much-pursued.
Sighs at night from inside the cartoon: I'd be good
at your body, but everything. Of everything
"Make it up and wake up used to it." Everyone
and everyone and everyone else and you. In
your car, say, tracing the margins of morning,
conjuring a street.