your car radio stolen, you
beat the pavement and pens
silent nights under the stars
allusions to mediocrity make
you grit your teeth; your bones
protest the insincerity of it all
impossibility and the daydreams
of probability spin in my head - its
little wonder you can keep up
this circular love (of which kind,
i wonder) has left you breathless
for months. I remain ignorant
