I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment; 

I’m a working temp, a role promised Hermes that threw him over the cliff.   
 
A perfect station plays Schubert for a kettle of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.  
 
Angel, let’s run some #’s.  
 
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
 
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the periodic table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.