matchbook As night flew low I got it in my mind to give my plea into the radio grafted in the headboard You were out, mid-sentence, for the night— it didn’t seem like I should wake you: brow & jaw untorquing, coming sweetly disenlaced from what is now a lush reverb around the outgrowth of whatever secret life I’m off the hook to explain—
You go dreaming of those spike strips they pull across the freeway to slow robbers, or pharisaical liars, such was the the case & as in
the rough game one foists upon the baby aghast but lacking words I’m lurched toward lecherous flames in a strange Maxima, like every other, black bleached gray by exposure to the sun, to my treeless, unincorporated life within your green, dewy one,
translating for myself a narrow & machinelike cursive on a matchbook by the flashes
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