At first I think
I don’t love my neighbor’s car, he can keep it
though yes I want it

because want is not love and cars are not
named hearts. What kind of waking is possible
on Monday, what kind of work is possible
on Tuesday. The new road says I love you

and step on my face
I will not resist. But in a minute
it keeps its secrets, it holds you off like love
in its last year. You were born to love
in seizures, says autumn, but you were born
to be just, says the woman. You were born
to wake

says Wednesday, but will it still say the same
on Thursday. All I know is
I step over the border and say to him, I need
your car. He resists, we kiss unpleasantly,
we have arms not hands, it lasts all summer,
we fall into closeness without contact,
I mean to say I break his jaw
wide open. I need your car, brother. I need
that goddamned car. I want to pull my face

out of the world, I want to crawl nakedly in
past a hurtful opening, I want to be betrayed
for the better,
I want to ride in a box that holds its lightning
like your car,
brother. I want to be struck and deserve it,
I want to ride down the street
where the boys show their guns to anyone,
and then later in a field
I want to watch
the trees point guns at anything that moves.

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