Do not pretend that you don't like it when we threaten you. We see you getting pheromone stink under the collar, moaning, baldly. Motionless, picturing decay. When we creak your step, when we crack your glass, when we tap tap tap, that is a bone that is all we have though we are very shiny, and filled with beetles. We are made entirely of bone. Like an idol. Like the tusk of some wonderful past. When you cleave to us, your skin will fuse, hot calcium meth, and in the myth, you will be named for us.
Literal, Littoral, Littleral
I have enough times been the ampersand,
the hitch between two vehicles
the vehicle itself careening questionably
up the mountain road, which is,
in my opinion, poorly designed, a hazard.
It is sometimes called the coast,
the coastal highway, but never
the cliff-side transfer whereby you take
your life in your hands, or more literally
the wheel in your hands, or the hands
beside which you sit, the wheel by which
many subtle gestures ensure
your safe arrival. Anyhow, it seems to me
a very poor choice of transit. However
much we love vehicular independence,
the illusion thereof. Or the glamour
of regency ghouls. That golden age.
Anyhow, the vehicle, she, why not,
that has many times been me,
and hardly splendorous, sinking
dolefully, doefully, dutifully
into the “lake,” rolling graceless over,
eating up the “blurred yellow lines,”
eating pavement, often graciously so.
I have been the pinch of weather
in the phenomenological space
between you lovers, the compartment
in which you exist hand to thigh.
The crowbar in the garden rusting
from strange use, with little ambition,
who would throw such a thing there?
And when I am no longer analogous,
I go. Likely poorer and better off besides.