After Scene Changes / Waiting at Terminals

That cold code and direction, messy lip at trumpet. Every instance of try threatens. Edges fell, decisions and years. Cult of personality. Cult of brown swirled foam. Cult of narrative buried & pressed, the thin distorted images saying ‘ice made me’. Cult of self-control and vinegar rinses. Cult of waiting for results Cult of the young couples, throwbacks. Pockmarked in rollers w/ dog shit on slippers. If you never repeat, will you ever gain dimension. Remember the pink house & streeted slopes, drizzle with dinner & even in the warmth, confused fake snow.