the intro credits font crumbles to a song

it’s a galaxy of concern, one wherein you

lack air. the scenery comes frosted. tell me

your times, specific bare feet on the floorboards:

locate it, see i’ve got you for real here. it’s always

sunset in a vastly specific landscape, sadness

expunged, actors squint-eye against kissing,

a skirmish of light & dust. in our pillow universe

my robotic arm reveals paddock whorls;

your July 4 stocking run is the sun, wan &

bullocky, softness country’s aura & astrological

guidance. waves roil all about, under the radio,

a bristly phalanx. there’s me! through the curtains

with specific flashback: in gaudy analogue colour

saturation – a milky additive – & we’re huffing

into a sense of parallelism (naming rights

go missing, ground to some militant pulp).

step into this pre-loaded career & come,

come further past altitude sickness, lost

in the routine of finger-spinning old records,

all things slightly small like me in a room.

my thoughts: everything. coins dripped

in a bucket atop a median strip. you’d

like that. this was shot generationally

or by degree, a quotient of time, drawn

up by the window with you excluded,

you emended from classification.

it’s systemic while we’re in transit,

all the feels at bay, distance-stares

sapped of flavour, winter watermelons.

i’m often on location culling friends. like you,

cold in the dew, middleground to crystal focus,

light behind, hair pulled specifically back.