Poetry: G – Anonymous


in the snow filtered carlight you brush fingers against an eyelash
“my little sister used to do this for hours”
your hair catches in the wood splints of a lean-to
the back of a red pickup truck drops open,
canines piled high in your mouth
i only cry when my hr reaches 120
brushing teeth looks like v tach on an ekg
i bet i could learn a lot from your telemetry
only here                                      if we had more time
for 6s                                             you could have me
your absence leaves bitemarks in the trees