Summer City

In my damp inseam, the weather creases low and smooth.
Down the back and underneath the levy of legs. Tender

is the escape of water & salt—I jury to this known monument.
The camera washes the window, pushes the sheer orange

curtain away. In effect, it creates this timeline. That
I am currently a part of, like a lonely spider. It strikes.

There are these exhausting trips from
here to there: wasted time & the feeling
that everything is just the way it’s supposed to be.

You haven’t lived up to anything
and You haven’t lived at all.
Cursing dumb decisions like a plate of bad food

& then suddenly,
the begging silence
of how everything is now,
in this exact moment it appeared to me.

But, it goes cold and hardens.

It’s just a reminder:

every sentence is an ending and it is not.
There’s another sentence expected after it.