Turnpike 2 A. M. by James Diaz

My body
when I breathed
that deep intake
under the Holland tunnel
the sky was miserable
lit red lights
I hated you
from every New York club
it’s all closed
no more playing with your shoes
that I’ve come down across
all there

Bits of information
I’m frayed
and my edges miss your tongue
my collar bone feels like a bucket of stars
you wasted
when I lifted your hair so that you could puke
It was about salvation
not compassion
not really feeling
as you danced towards 14th street
red lights and glitter bones
I love you like you were a lost star

Into me
cabs and ice shoes
how you look
when the first snow finds your lucky mole
I won’t be dreamed in tragedy
It’s a short broadcast
I don’t have much to tell you
Hartford ’99
fools under bicycle dreams
Tappan Zee needs a new coat of grey
I have the end
It’s almost there
It’s almost everything.

James Diaz

James Diaz lives in New York. You can find more of his writings, if you are so inclined, in Cheap Pop Lit, Ditch, Pismire, Collective Exile, and The Idiom.


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