fast on the bus as far as we can go.
everything is green
with little snails on your eyelashes,
tastes like the day I drove
with the windows down
not knowing a year would bring
and glasses left on the bedside table.
but now the mattress is on the floor
and made of volcanic rock,
it was afternoon, and I
saw your thighs bleeding in the living room,
closed the door,
and turned my car the wrong direction
down a one-way street.