There is a scar on your inner thigh,
that looks like a bear, and when I traipse
my index finger too close, you go rowr.
Always Ray, always.
I walked up Lexington Ave once,
looking for Lou Reed,
but maybe I’ll have a better chance,
now that he’s non-corporeal, spirit-level.
Bus journeys travel me, but never take
me home. That’s a place, like
Sunday morning coffee and two opposite words
pushed together to make something delicious
and startling. A moving place, a claw,
a howl, ungraspable, like birds’ wings
in liftoff, always Ray, vine-tight,
non-corporeal.
Header photograph © K Weber.
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