PETER COVINO
red balloon, skyscraper
like a bustling city, a cigarette break,
a charging ram.
Not without a little sadness,
flowering pear trees of East 22nd Street,
canopy, bouquet, petals-ful of mess,
pure, unadulterated
the way you take up the oxygen
and bounteous colors
all of two weeks. I have avoided
the gym, the fleece jacket
and especially the Elvis LPs.
The thought of you—
a thousand slipknots,
gait and pubic hair
squint and twitter,
revved engine, last sip,
puff of smoke.