From the sixth floor
the traffic comes together, clotting the lanes,
brake lights like blood cells
rushing through the vein.
The earth is sick; I forgot again
October’s liminal pangs, the insidious gnawing of the passing
seasons starting to break skin. There are no more shadows—
the city churns in the steel blue
I am under the weather. Above all else
the sky is dirty like street gutter slush;
in my head are the Christmas lights
around your wooden fence, me waiting
in the car for your door to open.
I can still feel the rum lighting us,
and I can smell the sweet milk dried
around your breast in the morning.
Wake up. The lights
are turning off one by one.
I hurry to grab my jacket and step out
into the cold.
It always ends in winter.
– Long Beach, CA