my gossamer bridge of dreams

the scab on my arm that
won’t heal. my ability
to leave well enough

“you have interesting hands,”
you said. “if by ‘interesting’, you mean
‘ugly’, then sure,” I replied.
that was our first date
only in retrospect.

I lean back
on your body. “you make
a great pillow,” I say.
“you make
a great girlfriend,” you

I enjoy seeing my glitter
on your face almost more
than on my own – twinkling
like stars on a soft, dark
night; a jewel in the Ethiop’s

driving by 20th and 1st
in late August;
the bitter cold
of last December
and his bitter, lost
heart seem
equally remote.

cigarette smoke
and my feelings about
the way things used
to be.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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