Boston Poetry Magazine

by Michael Schmidt
reprinted with kind permission
Something was nipping at our heels. The night was sticky-black and it dripped in big fat spaced-out rain drops and tangled our hair so all we could do was laugh in the back seat with our heads out the windows as somebody drove us to the next chapter while we looked for the stars. We howled and people howled back, we were both alone and had another larger man between us. We felt each other through the filler and I knew you were my reason for jumping into this stranger’s limousine– Chris Ball, he claimed he could get us into the Cosmos. Your blue hair matched the neon desert lights, your slender arms were speckled with crooked lines of tattoo poetry and on your forearm was a swallow– your skin was a high-strung canvas stretched across a skinny frame. You played with your…

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