"do not go gentle into that good night,"
thomas, neruda and bukowski would
hammer our black lungs,
shape the tar into sidewalks,
build a night sky out of the darkness,
abyss,
a garden of stars
out of stale ribs and dry plants.

we'd arrive in New York,
palms sweaty and imprinted
with the spindly rivers of map ink, tattooing our fingers
with the criss cross
of Arizona roads;
our fingernails embedded with the scent of
smoke and wine,
lips tinted vague purple.

our limp wet hair would hang across our foreheads,
plastered
like an attached child

we'd kiss goodbye
dry lips like the desert, cigarette coal burning hot like sand
soft lips, like sunflower blankets
golden lips, like sun filtered brandy
pale lips, the foam of the ocean,
dark lips like evening
bruises.