I walk through a storm
when everything is blue.
A car furiously escapes, peeling
mosquito shaves from grounded
air. And lightning shrivelling
such aimless skies tonight.
We’ll work through this together,
but my feet cripple me later, by
then all those houses stick to them.
She started talking about
ghosts and killings and shit.
I guess you know what I mean; colds
arrange their fluent sheaves
around us, as on Toledo Road
as on North Ridge, arresting walking
sleep: this is a fuck of demon.
They connect behind the
Circle-K. I’ll speak to you
in lights, and kneel. You’ve never
lost anything. I win. Blue breath.
--
Lewis LaCook
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