The legalization of the criminal
There might be a girl's name tattooed on your arm,
or you might be clutching a future daughter

in my fragmented mental fate that states I am here,
somewhere still in love with you,

realizing mid-drive through the hot-house city
that I have forgotten what your voice sounds like in complete sentences –

certain words are still resound in my mind,
but whole conversations have been expunged

into blackness, and just the curtain of the emotions
I felt while we were having them remain,

and in sighing I bend my hands across the steering wheel,
still refocusing on circular buildings, gasoline on the asphalt,

a unisex bicyclist, and other peripheral distractions,
noting them in only the way a writer can,

that I no longer see you beside me,
no longer plan a future that is irrelevant to the current circlet of semi-circles

and abridged freeway freightliners, flat lined, or the ongoing list of boats,
rocks underfoot, and the sun which beats down like veils,

or emotions, or hands, or men on top of you in the night.
There might be a moon somewhere that remembers my nights with you,

a stars cape that reflects the light in my face,
or some treacherous oval shaped woman stunted

in the fetal position who recalls,
recalls,

recalls the broken rib of my parting with you,
but not now,

not now.