Tiptoe
down the dotted line,
painted white on black,
suggestion reaching back
to blame our mothers,
but they're lovely
underground;
they disagree without a sound
as we're becoming.

Sunshine sky,
it's min, I know,
conviction shows me through
when all I have is you
and tar-taped highways
edging sideways;
I won't get hit today,
you think, and let me leave
in skin the shade of grapefruit seed—
"I do this every day," I say
in argument, thought you never
argue it.

Because
if traffic is my game,
you'll let me play.

So honk your horns,
my gentlefolk,
I'm not afraid to step on toes,
and if you flash your lights at me,
you'll see;
I'm just a roiling knot of
pitch-black worms:
all those lost concerns
lurking in your rearview mirror.

I walk the lines of time
and insecurity.

Today my azure sky falls down
around bruised knuckles,
I dodge a little later
than I like,
but I'm alright—
my timing's always been a little off,
you shouldn't cross me
if you know what's good
for us.

Crackle-singe,
I fall,
again,
like that time last winter
when you shoved me in the street,
I never gave defeat
in your direction;
but this time it's not you
who drags me down
into the monochrome,
though I know you'll want the by-line
for this skyline
electrocution.

Blue infused its innocence,
this sky which fried
my insolence
for dancing through destruction
like I do;
I wanted you to be my end,
my solemn friend,
not the unfamiliar rawness
of the gods,
but you response was one
of horror.

Don't abhor me,
darling,
please?