following the ditches forces
butchered blades of
knuckles whipped by long
grass, stems of weeds
while i dreamt
and you were coming
from a stop
sign in the winter still
stole an orange
in dormant streets and i retract,
a pedal carries
fleeting feet to swamps
we used to sleep in, sides of country roads
the view from my dad’s old rooftop, looking east towards the end of the valley.
it’s a little homesick, maybe, but i know i can’t go back.
so it’s different this time.
the rest of the pictures are here:
everyone was dancing in the parking lot of mac’s milk and there was a sing-a-long, or something, but i can’t remember the song. i had asked you for something, like change for a coffee or a cigarette and you were trying to help me but too much was going on. you knew i wasn’t worried and your eyes were very full. not in a bad way at all. it was simple and everyone kept dancing and there were puddles all over the place. everything was reflecting in the streetlights and the mac’s sign, which was still yellow. right as i was waking up i was spinning and could see you. your arm was held out and you were wearing your jacket, which i like because you look good in it.
today i did an unnaturally generous thing and was repaid instantly for it. he was an awkward reminder of all my friends back at home. he was scrawny and dressed blandly in skinny black jeans and a brown toque and a beautiful chemical smile. for my brief trust in him i received a single wrinkled American cigarette and vibrant recollections of the narrow, yellow kitchen in my father’s apartment.