Ride in Night

Riding south to Namba,
the streets are filled with autumn night, thus
why isn't it impossible
to feel the sun's warmth against my back?

My fingers hold
the memories of knitting,
whittling and fingers. My mouth
of onigiri, anise and a flicker of tongue.

How lucky can I fucking get?

I offer this all up
to the altar of intricate failures,
as well.



by jerry gordon
10.20.10