All the campfires of another detective night are out.
The radio's on in the other room but we can't hear it,
we can't hear it. And it's sonic and we don't care.

Another night of detective cars sliding past you.
Dump a few answers in the trunk and we can
unload them tomorrow, scorching tomorrow.

These are the drawbacks of a closed-circuit world.
These are the detectives we pay to betray us.
All the campfires of another detective night are out,
but this time a spark has escaped us.
posted by Adam at 11:52 PM [edit]

You fall like someone else's leaves over a spread-out picnic blanket.
Let's re-orient this continent: it has put Texas too far from you.

Texas: this starless sky and brown water I have come to call home.
You: my favorite music-maker, the reason for hands.
posted by Adam at 10:35 PM [edit]

It's getting hotter now
and the swan-dives of the little kids
in blue and purple-suits--tortilla-fed
and ready for the world, or for some
better world--are long and frozen,
like films.

The day rolls over. Take a nap.
It wakes up--another day, and still
no you to speak of, no pool-side
or pajamas. It's getting hotter
now.

The massive and tortilla-fed--
we will make it new, make it better--
wear their suits into the water
but are naked still, body and water,
water and world.
posted by Adam at 12:18 AM [edit]