have
something like a human trombone
some serious moaning, song-confessed
dangles a rickety swing, my body
I was thinking, inglorious
red light, actual rest
I remember
an endless dialogue with myself
unfurling into the future, the work of echoes
one seat per window
miles, ribbons woven into my hair
smoke rings from the balcony unhinged by no wind
there is another me
I look for then try to forget
there is another you
flexing under the covers like a toe
In those years only the dead smiled
but those years, haven't they ended