Breadcrumb #182


Yours is a violent landscape.
This Midwestern flatness
and the trees are slapped against a maple sky

The river slashes my ankles
I want to trip with you
across the embankments
please tell me the Atlantic is getting closer

I miss salt clothing me
And I want to speed through those graffittied tunnels
Watching my reflection billow in subway chrome

But you somehow soften
the aching
for punctured clouds and
sweet Coney Island sand

We travel to where you grew up
the hills around us thrashing like a turbulent emerald ocean
I’m alone with you
and the jagged Wisconsin bluffs
inhaling an indigo sky that stretches all
the way to Brooklyn

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