This is the place where fish ease: an outdoor fountain that freezes in season, a hidden bench, once-fucked cement, and the metal half-sphere: who says the best things in life aren’t natural. & This is the moment that keeps us swimming: holding hands to pass the night under Buckminster’s startled skies, permed lips, tattooed lashes, neon skin, shared drawals, or the voices silent behind caverned beauty. & This is how we held looking back, forth, pretending wyld eyes, or no one’s ever once said the words we sing tonight.
Standing on the half-sphere
& This is where we were when we met, but we’re losing our edge, discouraged by what we left behind: The wreckage of the wake of the eye of the torrents of sugar-coated pacifiers, signals burned to rust.
Standing at the edge of fluorescent’s salt ash
& We define our bodies by what they lack, the good we won’t let settle from the riptides in our chests. Ask why we blended without question, skepticism. The answer, or who bored us. It takes twenty years to claim safety from smoke. I won’t speak for anyone
else, or just five words to pacify
a we we could have become.