Not a Stub

Tiny red letters
on the back of my ticket

to see you spell out
what’s a legal

baseball game; where I consent
to have my image, likeness, actions,

statements used; who’s at risk

before, during, after the event
in case of injury. Me. What about you?

I see you sling your guitar way beyond

sport—this is passion. I’m prepared
to risk what’s between those bar code spaces

to witness this. No assigned
seat necessary to enjoy the show in all caps.

Palimpsest

By any other name, old under
new over these layered spasms could be
a lover’s ancestor in throes
of it. The lover did not 

inherit that passion. It could be
learned. Or unlearned. No.
I cannot go back. I can
repurpose desire into 

energy to stay awake overnight
for this city’s sake. But shadow
limbs will move behind a scrim—an ache
will likely bleed through.