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, unified, 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?