not like it has a title or anything

this is the image of new lust,
of new fat lip,
of newborn hand clutching breast.
this is us swelling,
growing towards what we need.

the unrehearsed come-on
that says loud and clear
hate and love and
fighting and fucking
all at the same time,
the fact that in our language
there can be so many words
for the same thing.

this is the image he said
was burned into him,
of the blazing station wagon,
streetside, no one watching.
this is my burning car, this is
surreal and radical,
and i want to turn off the gas
pour on the gasoline and
light a match in the front seat
so people know what’s going on.

and what’s really going on, bottom line
is that there are pieces of us we
clutch as hard as our dignities,
yet so so so much want to let go,
wanting to tell each other
about that misbehavior
that moment of wading into the ocean
while someone was drowning
and all we could think was
“stars…”