it's a map, always,
back to where you first got into Steinbeck or drank
Americanos while you read Luke Chapter One
--I'm late for work and
Satan left me a message
made my hands look old in the drive through
(when I wanted something permanent...anything permanent
like good handwriting or the lines on your skin in all this mess)
a try at a better me--
loosely
we run because it
hurts less and less
and maybe I don't want the poetry
stitched into my skin because
I've never been thoroughly sentimental and I like
starting
over
like
bleach
white.