No

where 

road trip

with you, Mind.

You’ve been one to blame

for the crinkled maple leaves

lining the inside

of my mid-

Sunday

skull.

Still,

sun tastes

eight o’clock

with the window shades

pulled to; “My Smile is A Rifle”

slips

cold 

down my 

turntable:

slithering garter

snake twining me to a scale-skin mix.