Then I notice noxious gas drifting across New Jersey
dream of the dismal swamp.

Then tweens end their sexting and scatter into apoplectic dusk.

Their behavior itself is adult, their body covered in armor
like the city’s scab has grown up circular
around its river itself.

The downstairs puppy—named Cobalt, or Robot—is washed in it
and my desire for cherries or peace in this moment

this walk-up apartment, bedroom window
where I had sat and drawn from life.

The sun entered us in waves all the time

incremental and late, like the producer’s notes to the director
who then directs the exaggerated movements of the actors.

Terrence Malick whispers            let us go, it’s happy hour.
Magic ozone auras overpower the taste of an envelope, even.

Butterfly wings unfold inside
the wings of the conjugal butterflies.

Watch it, faggot, says one riding off on his bike, kicking out
the back tire to knock over a trashcan.

Thus I look up, and see you at the window where you stood
mole on your shoulder, hellacious.

Thus are present eternal truths: the bed, the bath, the beyond.