happy we are—
my father in the driver’s seat, sleepy pupils set on a starry screen
—palms bloodied with sweat.
“turn right in fifty meters”
otherwordly whistles fall past my origami eyes,
while silver bullets carve a gentle varnish
on their cold, black portrait.
i search for you
inside a brazen, leather-skinned bull;
across a glossy loaf,
i see, scattered and dimpled, your elegantly ruined face,
and can’t help but notice that tinge glazed upon like dressing,
from between my eyes, along the outline of your ear.
and as droplets of canary englazen my entire being
and as i, myself, am prepared,
and divided again—
and as if you, yourself, were waiting for me
at the end of the elephant’s tail—
i’ll await unchained hands
whose nails will scratch at this unleavened flesh—
or at least, i may hope
—for what am i if not the object of another faraway song?
blessed and cursed
with distance and desire,
which god will tell me
that our fingers may meet?