An All Too Hasty Retreat

Bitter sky spins a black fog over
an infinite radius. I forfeit the ire
of stones, for once frantic and free,
barrel assing through turbulence and
the junctions of bone. All presence absolved
of weight. All presence beautiful
glowing entrails wrestle their way through
a deluge. How strange that for once
I no longer struggle as they do,
my gravest concern being keeping my foot
on the gas. Though I do now and again
construct from vagrant impressions
a room with a bed of tousled fabric
resting in the corner and me
with a cigarette pasted to my lip, lacing
my shoes, not saying a word, and her balled up
on the bed, wet streaks of mascara,
not saying a word. What is there to say
anyway for this particular crisis?
To say that this wasn’t inevitable
would be a serious injustice.
As unspoken questions crash to the floor
in deafening array, I rise, make for the door,
relinquishing the tenuous bonds
that never stood a chance against our
respective character flaws, then I’m gone –

but as I escape to my asylum
of streetlights and trees strewn with damp air
I realize that I’ve left behind
my fucking car keys.

-r. miller

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