Write about luck bilingually
like it’s covered in a film, sticky residue
that’ll freeze, be solid in no time.
Negative twelve at o-three
and I’ll be here a long time,
shivering with a purple foot
and a tactical vest, all
while you contemplate
in perfume aisles of warm,
warm rooms that smell
like unfamiliar women and leather
in department stores.
I thought I hated it,
I was wrong again, it’s not—
so bad being here; please help—
me, no, I’m great.
I wrote to you bilingually
and I’m not so good
at either language,
I guess bad grammar
is my forte. Reply—
tell me about the time
you snuck out, met me,
we were children of late
night whispers, low registers
not picked up by
metal detectors, security guards,
white pickups, black sedans,
how I ended up in
a forest green Korando,
how I never even
think of you these days.
I don’t live bilingually,
it’s more like one point five. And
it was all no loss, it was transparent
that years would roll and cave
continuing to continue to be
how natural science shows me
self-identity in three states,
as fungus, a gunner, an employee
a solvent of dead material,
dissolving all my thoughts of you.
Wow, beautiful work, thank you.