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!
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.