BLAAAAH.
Well, whatever the hell I was expecting to write, this probably wasn't it. Physics... golf??? Come on, Amy, come on.

This is 100% Tuesday. 


The Ambassador

Animate, polar--
The bass drifts from beneath a street lamp,
All mapped out in my mind.
It sails over the forms:
Stomach fairways, lightning curling along my toes
And your lips like a decal
Clinging to static-sprung skin.

Go ahead, play it--
Take those fingers, golf daringly along the water's edge.
Settle in the dunes, the rough--
I don't know how you'll get yourself out of this one.
The music's flow settles
On your back
Near my hands,
But my mind seems far more concerned with
The din of your hazard breath.

It's funny the way beds rise;
We're all potential energy, black bodies
Buzzing, swinging wildly against whatever seems worth hitting.
That's all nice, you say,
But he's just the ambassador.
The breeze picks up--the storm curls back.
The music drives hardest when it gets dark like that.
Maybe soon I'll meet him, I say.
It all depends on which way the wind is blowing.

-- A