24 hour Laundromat, Espresso, Seattle, & Boys in Vests

I think buying the washing machine was probably the most intimate thing
I've ever done with another person,

more so than the glossy reflection that my body
casts upon the mutely polished floor of the upper
level Sears appliance store, where oubliettes
of obstacles might have reshaped us, but for
clasped palms and hot coffee's from Starbucks
in our hands, and words hastily spoken, eyes rolling,
refining checkbooks, mathematical equations storming
the gates and turrets of an otherwise whimsical word-heavy
castle, and Seattle is like some kind of dream I once inhaled
with the dusty dusk, and boys in vests - every button meant
to be undone, a barrier of the two of us downcast -
telling you that elevators make me nauseous
and watching the number sign flip colors
at the top. There used to be an
Indian burial ground
here, and I think in
some transparent
portal of time the
women still
come here
to mourn
the dead
in their
rotting
canoes
hidden
in the
tree tops,
and thinking
that a kiss is
something like the
tree line, where thick tips
tunnel along skyline. There were
never pilgrims here (save ourselves) just crop dusters.

And thoughts taste differently when you realize that change is imminent,
as in nothing will be the same after this, nothing.