Truth be told the animals spent morning
all the ways one could with an earth,
if not of blurred affection then happy
circumstance; there’s known reverse
fog on the hills when my friend comes
back to town, I put another wasabi snack
up to the monument, it’s expensive and
I have no money, the city pretending on
me. Columbo nights recall that the bartender
walks home in the middle of the country and
the middle of the street some birds. This might
be what is happening in the linchpin of my
memory for last night the car couldn’t get up
the wet hill, the hill was really a wave. What
else negates a lucid story if I’m in love with
a stranger’s lisp. Some cars pass twice,
a song’s uncertainty. I wish you weren’t so
capitalized in the fog, not after all this salt.