Folding Gin

April 2

this memory was lifted
before it came away, a crime, or shear
wind ringing toward this corner
with no more filament.

with the potential
to run a street to ruin, i am begging
to drop and give you twenty. amended:
maybe ‘potent’ dials up
all the other leaflets’ safety words
or ‘have’ is always
already too strong a verb…

but look at what’s left
in the guts of the wreck
you say and notice
each coded wire, the lap shed
of its color
and colony, a dome
cracked and metal
piled into a tiny meal we remove
ourselves from
the intersection, from the stitching
in the street
and wait just until
it blinks.

then we fold up
all our things and walk
sideways away
naming what obscenity
remains

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