(17) 4/20 : easter egg hunt

a scalding riot of jitter

sunday night we are—
unlike the christ—
dispassionate.
we are elbows on knees
propped riverside.

you tell me in one breath
how you are depressed
because you need to fuck,

eyeball a passing girl you charmingly
sketch as a ‘bag of bones’ and
‘just your type’,

your attentions alternately
whimpering and coercive

I point out how the water is
a scalding riot of jitter
and say we should go dancing.
you say we should go dancing
and have sex after.

happy four-twenty, you
murmur loudly to no one
in particular, watching for
flickered recognition:

we are prowling
for parishoners looking to go
to chemical church, or
females willing to overlook
a bedroom that smells

like the aftermath of a forest fire.
we look for strangers with
which to touch souls, or hands,

the better to convince ourselves
we are not riddled
with holes.

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