you have to act as if you’d

what’s that mean

and the mist?
what can the mist
possibly mean

if it means one
thing to the scratch tickets

and another
to rose petals—they turn,
flower petals

turn, torn-up
lottery tickets turn, 
in the wind

a steady stream
the sidewalk, 

turning, the brick

sailing a little, 
before settling

the same sky
boot heels
walk below—

but what does that
bring to the mix?

You’re just a thief now,
come in
from a white squall of rain—

highway rain—

no one whose name
the headlines might out.

You’re not unique.

I’ve let down those I love too.

I’ve swiveled around
and in the frozen cloud
seen the fire

all cross-grained
by rain. I’ve smelled the sweat
and perfume

on the wet towels
she left behind, & I’ve made a mess of
my name at dusk.

I was being called at dusk.

I can explain only this.
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