The honey in your hair mixed
morning’s brew, that old cassette player
held us suspended, above lanes weaved
by another century. I would go back,
knowing it was my turn to change the tape
fix the twist with a pencil.
All noise is a rib cage, a trapped soloist
weeps out of tune, how the world rose grating
then, against a lidless basket of us.
We had our best before date
when my feet marched flat against the Draft
but my hands found you.