Love in the crime scene
Trust is a white thing.
A pale flower on the piano.
A bridal cup.
A door left ajar for the next soft disaster.
I want none of it.
I want the train hop at midnight.
The road unwinding like a silk stocking.
The directions in the glove compartment,
the lipstick on the cigarette,
the whole criminal weather of two creatures
who stopped mistaking surrender for love.
But…
