I used to sit close to you
when you were driving,
the side of my leg against yours,
my hand resting on your thigh,
your hand resting on mine,
our eyes on the road ahead.
Such closeness of denim:
knee, hip –
shoulders if we so desired.
Such desire to blend, to lose oneself,
and when lost
such anger in the bones, such desire
to separate,
to save one’s own hide,
however worthless it has been declared, [End Page 83]
a last-ditch effort to salvage one’s limbs,
to wrest free and bail out,
to land, rolling,
on the pavement,
to rise, wounded,
and walk again.
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