off-season & we
have parked the Lincoln on the
shores of Jupiter there is
methane madness & a
serial undertow beyond the
swirl of beach the
weed bullied crust of parking lot 

cannibals may be watching for
we are plump & sluggish in this
gravity that bends the light of the
dash board absorbs the songs of
Lyle Lovett holds heavy my
arm upon your shoulder like a
drive-in awkward adolescent                                     

round the perimeter of this place they’re
hard to see from here but we have
assurances of their existence confining this
possession of theirs in
ochre & blue like a sand painting perfectly
circular days vertical &
thin as the rim of a china cup


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