Lucky or not, we were riding in cars through the seasons.
I read you Baudelaire. I have more memories than a thousand years.
And the skin began to look like a puzzle
despite lighting or pleasures.
Columbus Circle at midnight.
Turn around and remind me how late in these photos
you look like an Andrew or prince.
There is fog by the bed and house weather I live in.
Then by dawn I’m a fold in the fabric’s small show.
Believe me, he said, every hand finds the right door without keys.
A neck in a low blouse.
So tempting. Now raining.
This waiting for calm that feels more like a drug or a phase.
How bizarre then to show up and stay in this faulty material.
My eyes or your legs or these lips. Do not wince.
Calm your face with another’s. You’re meant to. It’s safer.
All the days have turned up and like models won’t change.
What’s the evidence then if I’m given receipts
but can’t make out what’s missing.
I’m still here. One more sip.
One more drag then drag me.
Wherever you park it’s the law, you must pay.
We are known when we’re walking our bodies
on Mondays and weekends.
J’ai plus de souvenirs que si j’avais mille ans.
Who’d believe that what ends here continues,
it’s senseless. Don’t listen.
Use up all the memory. Use up all that’s there.