2/3

He digs himself in until entwined
in loose wisps of my windblown brain
while January pierces the sternum of
her hunched charges running to and fro
from granite obelisk to the web of damp tunnels and trains.

The city is a Freudian dream …
the countryside favors a Euclidian proof
and nature’s complex repetitions
and partitions and unifications of
angles acute, right and obtuse.

The city is endless rectangles, cubes,
and lopsided love triangles
which evolve into pentagrams
and turn themselves inside
out on those who traced them
in fleshy absentia.

Where is your geometry, baby?
Why so many angles?
I invoke protective circles
but your voice always gains
the border. You permeate
my molecules, you infect and you spread.
You don’t deserve my fever
and yet I’m laid out,
burning to the touch and
shivering, shivering, shuddering
while January blows me
to and fro across bridges
and into rectangles.

You’re harder than street drugs,
your euphoria shorter.
You chase me through the dreamscape,
and then you always drive my car.
How did you get my keys?

Go away. Go to the opposite hemisphere.
Go away but come home soon.