David Dodd Lee
Pure speed. Guttered one day, I literally
piggybacked an internal combustion engine. It was like
fucking drugs. My T-shirt was a pair of wet, extra lips.
A threnody, I think, that day, or its reverse,
propelled by displacement. Still I couldn’t make the country
air blur like an ocean. Time to lean back
and let love’s clothespins stretch my nipples, two failures.
Autumn leaves serenaded the asphalt all the way home.
And the lonely houses blew kisses across the highway,
nailing each other. Safe now, the thermostat sweating,
I’m just so much crushed garbage. Live in me. Talk. Bleed