Kris Says

Russel Swensen

There are too many oh far too many change machines
in this city

each entombed in the wall of a carwash & covered with
a thick yellow dust     the money bundled up

within it     an old grief       gut carried   

Someone  (& that’s us)

is going to have to rip them out.    Kris
turns to red silhouette    as he falls into
a silence

that feels lacerated   that every inch of
bothers & vexes   the quiet a tune that tumbles
in the mind

the dryer’s fistful of wet cloth    how it grates on
you     as you move

            your cigarette through the coffee ground
            air      like a mosquito

blood drunk   fitful

what is it your gesture
weaves   what is it the smoke beads upon
silver sequins

                        or strands of web

how they cling     how you struggle
how soft & silky     the petals of the jacaranda
brushing your neck

like lips