Find me at the point of least resistance
or passing a motorway collision slowly
where no one ever believes me, a pioneer
interviewing the withholders of love
sleeping sincerely in their cars
& spanning the youth of a bruise.
Juliet’s hair cut short with rusted scissors.
Supple as good reason, can I postpone,
Alice in Sunderland piggybacking
her placater out, skint—but alive!—
I cannot postpone so I show with my
boatload grin, all over me like a cheap suit,
show-&-tell to the fake thugs who
are found out eventually.
Seniors, you attend to yourselves like classes
on how to daydream, like sycamore trees
blowing gently on the hill & I was so
lonely I learned to talk to myself &
wipe kisses off the bathroom mirror.
Then my consort of confidants called
truants showed me the middle of a story
is always confused, so with slings
& arrows, rolled blue mags boinked
on each other’s hoods, winter jackets,
we were all both damage & spoils,
meeting at the bridge & setting fire
anything that would catch.