Talking to you across all those bands of words, out
brashly under watchful glitter rode, busy with
the intention to meet up before the first flints
of stubble stole, as though it could just as
easily have been your idea to describe my
entrance into the wood through a proscenium.
All I've got to exchange in this version is my
recurring fine drift on the parked laps of car seats,
just now ready to open doors across any
gravel or quake brawn drive for what you give me.
Just how much they'd be ready to admit for us,
naturally I'd tumble to find out, and roll
Over in the most popular time for death
to a recollection of risking the error
crouched hoarsely in your eyes from my unblushed pursuit
of the self same spot we'd wait autistic rows
behind the action. Lie crumbled in Gethsemane
then, where it's always too late to be anyone else.