A drive up the street is light, is a boon —
is full of female matadors.
The moonbeam is a tangent
glancing off his eye juice —
a turn of the head, a crick in the neck,
tearing the muscle in his chest.
She’s an epiphany — the fifth element
setting off dominoes —
prang after prang into prang
as reflectors sing the car-crash song
and she flickers — a film projector
batting her eyelids at bull-bars
like tremors after an earthquake,
tearing the chest muscles of other men
(any man with a memory)
up and down the strip.
(published in Everyday Static, 2010)