50

you can't lie.

not when I can see your thighs. but then again,
    you had me sold
    on tales of sweet molasses     and dry cider.

the way you paused when speaking . . . ungraceful, distant murmur -

                   ***

overexposed, the sunbath upon Observatory Hill and
recollections of stark snaking contrasts
    washed&mapped rolling contours;old town suburbs
this was oilpainting by seconds.

                   ***

           coffee break.
    Fuck. What did we talk about? I felt so self-assured ,but
    we dropped clauses from our conversations, until our
    sparse sentences resolved to dust and breath.

                   ***

and you left.

cobbled streets with your feet caught tight
in leather boots. clumpclumpclumping a narrative

& literature spilled from the ghosts of rattling trains and the mufflers bound to four lanes of apothesis