Poem (mine).

Sonnet’s Antonym

Some days I might as well drive alone; you’d
frighten at a crash, but nothing less. Or:
everything less. On days like these I could
ride toothless, slugged, hoodwild, skin leaking from
burst buttons; I could moan in Russian, wrench
a gull through the windshield, eat my right wrist
with hot sauce. And you would signal right, check
mirrors, obey signage. We arrive at
the cliffs where spray meets your sideburns like a
sentence. Me: Look at that stone; how’s your toe
-nail; remember
pogs? Hand on your back to
leave behind some cells, though your shirtheat spurns
me like you with a towel, seaside: Why
does the sand always have to land on mine?

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