Abandoned Put-Put

            Beyond the pale of easy-

swings and tirechains

         taut-wired

                between wooden stakes,

                      one peachpit sun

             and berrydropped

                mistish cream

        yogurtchirrs        a jet-furrowed

cerezarim sky.

           Owlechoed, marmotcobbled

                             night

                                       comes on bitten fingernails as

                      duning passion

percolates through brakes

   of derelict put-put and hour-

               killing time.

It is changed somewhat.

              

                   (I guess.)

          

The blonde-lighted Christmas wreaths halo the streetlamps and make these dark alleys  (where I once pressed your waspwaist, cornsmell hair, against my corduroy jacket, bought for three dollars at that thrift store where you planned to buy a couch) appear new.

And though brighter, with more hedges lining the brick walkways, more sinister are these streets I walked in very marrow time.

     Mortifero cold birds building nests

               in broken lightbulbs

   and cabinetdrawers left;

          Moonlight wrinkled nights lined

    as workschedules pocketed with keys and quarters

                 in pants

            worn nostarchwrinkle for a week,

             birches unwashed as lingonberry crepes

       and maple muffin poppyseeds.   Coffee tastes cold,

             fingers rub fuzz in pockets dry purple lips

                   stomachs hot from Buffalo wings,

                       cheesecake brownies, and mochaccinno drinks.

                       what to do what to do

                       i can feel the dew ribbleribble

                       through the suede of my tennis shoes

                      

               “What if there are snakes?”   but then

                     thoughts are not embarrassing--

                             only their to other expression,

                        like how it would be okay that she’s 22

                               and theoretthinks 18 lips 18 hands

                                   might feel good kissing phildrum elbow neck.

                    Even a knife in hand,

                            ramming gutboweleye

                   or sound of steamred fallplash on wooden floors can be imagined.

           “I want to be the one you want to lean to, lean to” expressed

                       in purple girlcalligraphy scrawl

                          across carboncopied caro of Memorexed affection

                                 highschool as nettedstockings tortoiseglasses.

                        ‘no no I am too young for this

                          I should not regret

                        what I have not done yet”

I walked by the old church where we performed our school play senior year. I did not love her you know. Even when I would call her, backstage, in costume, during rehearsals, when you were onstage and faking a German accent. I would make plans to see her later. I was really trying to make plans with you.

 Eft soon, nelumbo

                   petals shall pommel paradiddles

               on eldritch eyelids;

Poppies beat zydeco across the tin drum of the face

                  while lung’s accordion squeeze out all

                carbon, past and place.