His dress reached just above the knee

and he wobbled in heels as though

the tide had gone out

 

The lush landscape

next to the highway

was a mocking tribute

to a youthful hope

 

He shifted his handbag

as his slip peeked out to brush

his oily, gnarled knees

 

Llamas and cows grazed

while passersby absently waved

as if in communion

with a lost nature

 

He wasn’t sure where he was going

but his lipstick was on point

and his wig blew gently in the breeze

 

It’s going to be ok,

the air seems to puff out

in a kind of morse code

and it’s nice, even if it’s a lie.

Between the Chagall and heaving breasts

were words about the moon,

replete with sparkly imagery and

notions of green hidden behind

summer shadows.

From just inside the door, I could see

both gauzey clouds over the hills

and shellacked parquet in the hall

and oh I wanted to dance…

It’s not a matter of choosing

but trying a little of everything

and blending with night when possible.

When you’re driving home,

passing all the roadkill

and cracked fuel pipes,

watch how the sunset pulls

at trees and clouds

like they don’t want to let each other go.

1.

Someone said it would be magnificent

but her knees had burns

from the faux-velvet sofa

and her hair smelled of smoke

with a twist of mimosa

that had seemed a sophisticated choice

at brunch hours before.

2.

He plowed away

and she swatted at memories

of sea foam and molasses.

3.

Lips smashed together,

full of pizza sauce and belligerence,

they were tossed about the cabin

in a thoughtless fever,

forgetting who they were

and where they thought they were going.