Mike Krutel
BEST EXIT
The space between my ears
goes rollercoaster. Chemical slick
of my coffee, of sleep.
I am stuck between a tumbling blue,
hot fuse my dinner, and the trees
in a wind, unseen, untwine. Nothing
seems good here, or is it
out there? Por todos los siglos
de los siglos, you said, for all the time
of the time we are apart, I say.
A dethroated accordion
leans forward in my gaping skull
and my tongue follows you
like a missile, bites its handler.
I fall into your footmark in snow.
There is no getting out getting out
results of functions and functions
get in the way.
For you I imagine governances
best when the capitals swell
with mirrors.
We build a machine that dispels
pockets from the land.
I imagine the sight of our hands.
I wear a blindfold
to be with the dead, touch the suite
of your face, put my lips to
the edge of your noise.