...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...


Does it mean anything
that it thrills her
to share this cigarette,
their fingers fumbling
like lips in a wet filter kiss,
content in her reading
of the moment, a reading
which may not even
be written in the text
of this nicotine fix?

         It is the way that water
         takes the form of anything
         around it.

         It is just a cigarette.

We craft in our heads
that which is, perhaps,
not there, maybe
there, there.
It doesn't matter
because still we craft
that which is,
perhaps, not there.

         What will his mouth taste like:
         The musk of meat?
         The question mark,
         not the period,

The stubble on his chin
is a radio transmission.
It says: There is no nonfiction.
It says: The way when you leaned in,
your breath spilled like water
across my neck.
It says: To kiss is to kill.
It says: Desire-----------
                   then cuts off.
                   Signal dead.
           Satellites to blame.
Your hand close to mine but
not touching.

         Always the unfinished
         thought always
         the unfinished thought




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