Mythmaking On The Merritt Parkway

By G. E. Murray

Aluminum sky. Only November
Leaks into early frost
Like a ruptured jug
Of gas. I’d rather hold
Onto this road with pliers
Than have another face of you
Frisk my heart. Cool hands,
The touch of every moon
Is crucial and incomplete
As a sponge bath. Leaving
A backbone of lights
Behind me, a blinking string
Of pelts in fox country,
I long to slice through
Connecticut’s middle, marbled
And pink as medium-rare beef.
I dream you.

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