Open Air Backseat

when a gasp leaves your mouth it never returns you never cross a river twice and my hair will never flutter the same way it did the summer in Beirut we trojan horsed every club floor we arsoned – your dad's white Mercedes the black swan that shrined the broken form of wilder nights

windows roll down to better taste the rain that forgets its road postpone that conversation that heat emerging from the asphalt city that broods over itself one-third burn one-third breath one-third rain plump stepchild my city's lover rinsed in laundry water