Recalling the Last Encounter

There is an anemic embrace on the street

A kiss is thrown, meets another, drops to the sidewalk and goes for a tumble

You warn of tight clouds that wriggle like armyworms

A form of algebra suicide, I guess. I want to telephone the sailors

Curse their songs of gasoline as the light in the booth turns me hideous

I want to become hydraulic. Hit the newsstands, national exposure

Feel the world crawl into me through the fingers as the traffic outside locks, stops, and goes soft

I want to talk about milk, about the invisible bones of the face

About this brain that sits too close to the skin

While I hear you tell me we could be chainsaws under the stars

Under what stars?