The paint smacks and globs,
seething mad under droplets of
solvent. A life made of knowing
glances up and scatters. Me
and all I can say for sure. You
and all that you are, all
that you hold. Ballpoint in your
teeth, six pins in mine.
Night falls on the street and the
shadows twist with muscle.
Sinew. The raw hold of a charge
you could wind and
stitch with. What else? We break
to a sprint. Thrown
to the grass, we feel every blade.
A low slope and the smokeprint sky.