Promises Made from the Windows of Fast-Moving Cars

Park benches.
Sun showers.
Never having been so jealous of denim.
The ground is lava
but no one's heading for higher terrain.

Daughters born of rape
pose for zealous photographers.
Left-handed books
are plastered to the alleyway's asphalt
by stale rain
returning to the white pulp
they came from
while women who reek of ashtrays
turn off honest men.
It's accepted since it runs in the blood.

Last-known coordinates
get swallowed for safekeeping.
"See, that's where
you would have failed anyway,"
a stranger mumbles to his collar on the sidewalk
before vanishing around a corner.

To share wisdom
is to sacrifice power.
The latter is the meaning of love.

Currently reading:
"Poetry East (Number 87, Spring 2016):  London".

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