There were arms at the car park, all broke
And beaten, words slurred from the lips I needed;
To my ear, she sorted herself, unearthed something:
A flashfire of my heart’s desperation, slick to
Touch, holding the hands of fissure;
My feet beat a tempo to mend to ;
My heart wrote a poem to read out loud:
“I wrote this about a girl,” I said to a room.
No shit—tell us another one ;
Read off the palm of your hand ;
Sweat down the small of your back ,
Pry it loose from skin, and bone, near
Enough, to give up ,
her face and shoulders ,
From stage to muted floor .
That’s about a girl too, and
So was the one before.