It’s not in fashion to believe.
So, you see my conundrum—my lacey, abused conundrum.

Belief in a future “us” gets me out of bed,
it makes me put the lotion on, walks me
past the intersection where we met, and later,
in the shower, turns me flagellant.
Infatuation for the wound’s sake.
My fantasies have not matured much
beyond parking lots and dark corners,
beyond wind moving against the Gulf
of Mexico (beyond fetch and shear).
Then there is that pelican diving
for mullet, breaking the water
which is sticky with other water
(brief lie of adhesion).
Waste is a story too.
I build a lean-to out of the detritus
of our brief exchange, a diorama
of my own lust. Can the smell
of the peach be enough?
Not these days.