Russel Swensen
There are too many oh far too many change machines
in this city
each entombed in the wall of a carwash & covered with
a thick yellow dust the money bundled up
within it an old grief gut carried
strong
Someone (& that’s us)
is going to have to rip them out. Kris
turns to red silhouette as he falls into
a silence
that feels lacerated that every inch of
bothers & vexes the quiet a tune that tumbles
in the mind
the dryer’s fistful of wet cloth how it grates on
you as you move
your cigarette through the coffee ground
air like a mosquito
blood drunk fitful
what is it your gesture
weaves what is it the smoke beads upon
silver sequins
or strands of web
how they cling how you struggle
how soft & silky the petals of the jacaranda
brushing your neck
like lips