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, a rising market in wanting you (I do).   
I forget farewells.