The Met We Night
Right when you reached
across the bench seat
past the four on the floor
to tap my unfamiliar hand
coaxing the hex out
of my familar
tense on the wheel
I knew a stronger man
would let you down
at the light
call it a stop a sign
the wrecked mad cast
of yr hazel two-step saccade
yr brittle unblonde
over-dry and radiant flare
baked I could smell the leavening
still rise we rose
as one I lost my chance
and lied the go-ahead
while looking for some level ground
to enter you
escape yr grasp
in a patch of dune grass
Jack Darrow
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