In these latitudes


layers of transparent deceit

dried leaves for tongues

in these latitudes


I’m trying to read her lips

over the telephone


irony is only a passion for details


before either of us knew what that meant


like toy horses

galloping across the moonlit parking lot

& I’m tunneling thru perfect shadows

I thought you said might cure but

I didn’t believe it


desperation is a kind of vanity I guess


What it must feel like

pretending one was another

or darkness maybe later . . .


It's as if a switch has been

flipped on and there is now a brain disease


the waves turning japanese


& all that rain drawn up into the syringe

of twilight