The Steinach Operation

A place of semi-natural vigor.


Read it and weep. EG. 4/13. NaPoWriMo.


I want to drive under the overpass all night,
turn the stripe of light, the light’s blink
to a strobe effect—turn the light epileptic—

the interior goes orange, night-orange, the orange
of black—the edges go sharp/slack, sharp/
slack. I think So this is how it feels to be high

I always think that when I’m high . . .
& I play & replay the film clip of K
when she stood up to go—when the towering

wave of her drunkenness hit, flattened her
there—when she fell like a building
down into itself, its own empty air—

freeze frame & rewind—those heart-breaking
legs, collapsible spires—it never gets old.
She’s with me now, half-asleep in the back

& ice-cold & now the moths are coming,
the moths of spring—moving toward the car
as it moves toward them—we will pass

thru each other’s fields. Don’t be afraid, K—
though afterward we may not remember
who we were before the crash.


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