Sitting in her lap, drinking and thinking
but I’ve never seen her face
except in certain people’s eyes,
and in the moments when
you really notice the sky.
It’s comfortable and she listens
as she wraps around the world,
that shapeless body of hers,
like the stupid smoke in my lungs.
There was a mean haze in LA this June,
I think she was in town, blowing through the leaves,
the streets, whistling over knees,
and sliding into my teeth.
But she’s more than her body, of course,
and it’s the things she whispers in your ear
as she caresses your exposed ribs:
“The planet is moving all the time,
don’t you forget that.
It’s going at speed in some direction
that was decided way back when
that first domino set the whole thing in motion,
hitting the table with a big bang.
You banging your head against the wall?
That was decided then, don’t worry.”
I try to make out her misty eyes,
but all I can see is my demise.