I settle into the passenger’s side of your ’74 Monte Carlo. The futonish front seat softly implies an alliance center consoles forgo. Hot boxing the car with clove cigarettes, you casually spark plug the engine. I roll down the window, scything through jets of balmy wind with my fingertips. Skin deserts silently ****** skin lagoons; My neck—a cracked quill supporting onyx memories in a transistor room— rests close to your barley breath harmonics. You, the capo of this fresh syndicate, naturally get more than I transmit.