Brown winter, night air.
My lover and I imagining the future
With the drag strip so close.
Naught to dust in a lifetime
Of wheel spinning,
A lifetime in Buck’s traction.
But let’s not think of that now.
Holy crow, the birdseye sky in
Numerous fragments,
Some large, some small.
If only I had a hip to pull closer.
You can pull my finger, she said.
It’s a sweet offer,
But I'm standing here beside myself.
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