I am so alive in all the worst ways
The car is always running on empty
like the parable of the olive oil,
and though we never seem to be eating,
neither do we ever have enough
food to fill our appetites—some depraved miracle.
I am so alive in all the worst ways.
Our bodies like twin fountains in the center of town,
and all the kids run through.
Like mushrooms festering happily
under soggy sheets of decaying leaves.
I sleep through the better part of
each day. I run my tongue under you,
hold the Push button down so long
as I can. Each time you pour yourself
into the twin cups of my upturned hands,
I have a hard time saying When.
I feel the sun beating down on my back
like a rod—blows across our bodies
through the breeze. I feel everything, intensely,
like your bud rubbed-raw with need:
The car wants always to be running
somewhere, despite its lack of gasoline.
Weston Morrow lives and writes in Seattle, though at times he has called Alaska and Serbia home. He can be found on Twitter @Wmorrow.