Yellow Sweater

It's September; I am looking for a coat. The dry grass trembles stiffly in the wind, mist sharpening the brown into a shimmering copper. The rain smells like cake, like a warm inside. I pick my way through a back closet.

The sun was hot. It burned my skin and made my insides buzz. The drink in my hand decorated the heat, like rouge on red cheeks. I wore a bathing suit that revealed the flat brown of my belly. I could see my curves.

Bright colors in the fog that was smoke, 
like the warm inside cold.

We are exhausted.
the intimacies are sharp, 
because everything else is vague. 

I found your arms this morning.  

Wandering through the smoke, 
I picked up a copy of Nietzsche .
I don't know why I did it. 

Perhaps I thought I would look cool. 
The little book dangling carelessly from my hand; 

Sharp things made soft.
Soft things made sharp. 

A revolution. 

Isn’t that what rock is about? 

The beat of broken glass, 
of cigarettes,
of stained couches, 
politics, 

Today the sun set quietly, 
sheepish because is had stolen a cherry blossom 
and shrouded itself in the bits and pieces of a dissipated cloud. 
But the sheepish sun did not make a clean getaway.