by Kylan Rice
I love it downtown, bought flowers.
Eight little theaters showed the same movie
In which nobody died: a noir film whittled
Down to a hatbrim only, a svelt gat,
Down to leg-work rape and grapefruit.
Afterward, we paired up, had fun
Buying peaches, day dates,
Wolfish oranges.
Joy always humps
Out of the corner of my eye—then, when I look,
Wings become meat in a bucket.
With that I’m back, lashed to my sea.
I go downtown, fill out forms, store porn,
Greet the would-be light
Bumming under Xerox screens.
We rendez-vous at the druggist’s―
You tell me, too bad, so sad.
I sit on your lap and yank on your dress, hoping it’s real;
It comes off in hunks. The movie
Blazes with children and trebuchets―
I sit behind you, throw kernals down your shirt.
You tell me I haven’t changed a bit. I burn
In this city, where the lighting has always been perfect.
