Leaving the dance floor drenched but not dripping, breathless but not panting, hot but not fevered, enveloped in a glow of live atoms, they joined others outside on the steps, where discussions of politics and personality and miscellanea held sway.
The failed dishonesty you call your lust
lives in the hollow carved out by your guilt.
Edges bleed where other edges meet them.
This battlefield is not without its charms,
till memory insists and meaning forms.
She told me of the cousin who caught it, serotonin depletion after 4 months still ill. Solitary hours, reading, do tai chi, strong coffee and the rabbit who died under our car, of a rabbit illness we think.
“Time Travel. Don’t ask me how; I never read that Stephen Hawking book, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense. Something to do with wormholes I’m sure. We first noticed the changes Friday night, which makes sense. That’s when politicians always try to dump their bad news.”