With love

Poetry

When Gemini Season Ends

We fall helplessly, softly

into each other’s socks and shoes.

By this time tomorrow,

we’ll realize they were on 

the wrong feet the whole time.

We tear apart the spaces between suburbia

and the time you took too much mescaline

and didn’t know where who what you were.

Those unpaved trails 

between Los Angeles and Joshua Tree

look like raisiny fingers 

running their way across winter cheeks.

Stop the car!

Maybe this is like looking for the hay

in a stack of needles,

or being naked, dressed only in panic, 

in a stack of needles.

Is this a hum you will drum with constant conviction

until the backbeat becomes deranged?

Have you practiced before?

You take off your shoe as an afterthought—

let me fry an egg on your hemline.

Finish your champagne!

Then

You will excuse me as nothing terrific.

You will send me away in a tan taxi

called only when you step all the way into the street.

Wheat beer turned stout.

Elizabeth Hsieh