Plastic, glass, transparency.
You who have given your best so freely while the vanilla
inside the busted freezer solidifies so stubbornly
and stabs all youth’s sides.
Run in this finicky heat and tell me if you’ve won
today’s crackling debate.
Apply all you could know into the pores, some large
and some like the point on a pencil sharper than
your thesis statement born on foggy mornings when cars
kiss backsides with force and unfulfilled hunger.
Streets keep winding regardless of the time
your eyes spent lost in smeared fine print that
never seems to make up its damn mind the longer
you take to wrap a bow around runaway reasons.
Even in houses with manicured lawns, Swarovski
figurines convulse on clean tile floors.