it can’t be reached without
the intimacy desired between
strangers at best
tied to a fake frame and
bound you left me to smoke
through the screen door
laugh at the moon in it’s wisps
of eastern clouds, veiling
to the ones you can still taste in the back of your mouth
drinks under the table
into blank stares/awkward hand gestures
not reading eyes, the language
too obtuse for a transplacent reader
green to green to brown eyes
roll back to the ceiling in a fake
frame to arch a back barely
aroused enough to feign effort
to the ones you can still taste in the back of your mouth
not good or just bad enough
shoddy re-production of an original
piece of celluloid that had
movement in the shadows and
grit in the back alley mouth
now just backlit pillow talk and
the promise of departure
to the ones you can still taste in the back of your mouth
