The Steinach Operation

A place of semi-natural vigor.


It's Friday, and I'm in love. And apparently so is Elisa Gabbert.


I'm in love with a cul-de-sac. Sultry citronella,
slow cars pulling around with their heads
peering out to spectate my legs dangling off

of the porch swing. You can't kiss a killer bee.
I'm in love with a punctuation mark. Skeptical
brow of a tilde, mathematical moustache, half

an infinity sign, the sensual swoop. You can't
kiss a proximity. I'm in love with a frequency.
The sexual radio, it hums me awake and purrs

me to sleep, rocks me on its waveform. I'm lulled,
I'm buzzed, I'm six feet deep. You can't kiss in
different time signatures, different keys. I'm in love

with a sabotage, this sexy-ugly motherfucker
Trojan-horsing me, creeping into my poem
during my drunkenness's time-lapse photography.

You can't kiss your worst, your closest enemy.


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