A belt, a pair of shoes, oil stain on the driveway—
these can be incriminating. Someone drank mojito,
danced merengue, he may think on Sunday—
only we haven’t. We just stand in the living room

—not the arch but the middle—staring, and daring each other.
You mention a documentary. Maps of brain waves music makes
in the minds of all animals. You show me their shape
with vigorous thrusting of hands, soon lose your breath—

I almost finish your sentence. Music is so—
important, is all you can say. We agree there are things
more important. Exhibit A. Places you’ve never been.
I don’t mean the moon, or the eye of a bulb, I mean

where your instincts have no meaning. You could be stranded
and sniffing the air for a fire—you know who will come
to your rescue. Who’s to rescue me?
That’s why I crave being outside my skin

and in someone else’s. I sigh when I tell you this.
I use your first name with certain intimacy. Exhibit B.
Earth doesn’t care, and the sun’s a waiting machine gun.
After the supernova they’ll find me in the Arizona desert

writing on the backs of turtle shells about my dead aunt’s
lipstick, a story I’ve been trying to tell for years.
This is when you turn on the fans, the dishwasher, hairdryer,
television—all to distract my intention.

Images move a mile a minute
across the screen. I talk about driving the Loneliest Highway
and suddenly realize I’ve seen you before: digging in sand
under rock on the side of the road—hiding

twelve months of the year in the only shade you can find.
twelve months of sun are like twelve months of snow
which reminds me of causes of sin. Being good for too long,
you’re bound to end up doing something wrong.

The spirit, I’ve learned, isn’t much of anything except
perhaps and intersection. Let me be clear:
I want to move a mile a minute
under your thriving, pitching sun.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.

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