as if he could give
you what remains
of daylight. Shadow kisses 

across your cold cheek. Relief
from rush hour chaos—a simple word breaking 

off your mouth. Energy
from ten cups of black coffee, ten cans of Red 

Bull not needed here. As if
this recognition could be
on your face.

Burn Bridges (Day 2,444)

I can see the plume above your head
billows as if you were a mayor
in flammable hair. The river won’t ignite
this time. You’re on your own 

with your torch tonguing
its way between stays to the old
wood. What a mouth
you’ve got on you. Mine

pressing against it
won’t save the world, won’t
prevent collapse. Kisses
rarely dampen anything. I’d like
my torch back.