Mythmaking on the Merritt Parkway

Aluminum sky. Only November Leaks into early frost Like a ruptured jug Of gas. I’d rather hold Onto this road with pliers Than have another face of you Frisk my heart. Cool hands, The touch of every moon Is crucial and incomplete As a sponge bath. Leaving A backbone of lights Behind me, a blinking string Of pelts in fox country, I long to slice through Connecticut’s middle, marbled And pink as medium-rare beef. I dream you.