Chase outlines where the sun is alive:
my shoes become sandy,
my heart already dry.
I’ve always had this resolve but no one gave me credit for it.
She—a tasty temptress all decked out in orange—
A ripe fruit—now ceases to be whole anymore…in time…
We all lose touch. A desert quaint and full of shoulder-things,
with the wind at the back, a storm brewing overhead, we view—
a gale—forget-me-nots and remember-me-backs…
They pile about feet—a treading of what we had.
But we don’t talk, hell, we don’t even kiss.
I can’t remember the last time it mattered if we did.