We drove around all day
in search of something baked.
We drove around all day
to drop something off
that we would miss
to the point of sickness.
We drove around all day
if only to neglect the sunset.

Meanwhile, inside the hill,
a mall of cadavers calls us
silly for thinking it wouldn’t
come— the end of things,
the dry fire. I rushed by
like a good evening out does,
never once grateful for my heart,
how it cries like a plunger
in the wet soup of the toilet.

Then again, my heart
beats too fast
when I am completely at rest.
There is an enormous
and quiet problem
with my mechanics.
I blame it on the bees,
my embarrassing lack of rugs.

While I consider this
I feel august dripping
off of her and staining
my brand new shirt
like a bulldozer—I can’t
get a word in edgewise
and thank god.