crossing the tracks in that snarl
of mud and canary island palm trees,
he held my hand and
i-

well i asked him where are we going? or-
um, at least i said a lot of words this is
strange

i am so cold i am

so slow

i think i stumbled on the rails
then and
remembered a year ago this poet,
the husky voice and bubblegum lips
how her words were sex were
lucid were bright were present were
the familiarity of form and function,
and not my own scattered

breath condenses
on the exhale
so i just

hold his hand.