See, I don't love you the way I'd need to love you, if Love itself was going to be our sole survival strategy; If all our duct-taped, briefcase troubles had to fit Within the trunk and the lid still shut - that has to be A cadillac devotion, roomy and well-oiled. My love is bent Wheels, compact, matchbox floorboards trailing blood from Bald tires, staining asphalt crimson - its embrittlement Is guaranteed. How can I pull in your driveway drunk To offer you my ripped-up shotgun seat? What claim Do I have to invite along a passenger, to take advantage Of proximity; Knowing this ride will end in fumes of shame, Off the highway, hacking in a haze disguised as language. Still, I'm struck surprised to see you hesitate to sit inside: Can't you feel my heat for you, rolling off this engine's suicide?
~CRH September 2012
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