OVERFLOW

My concrete stare is souring the flowers. Your lackadaisical limbs are thrown About like uneven straws.

Right now you’re flaccid and I'm annoyed.

I met you sauntering, circling the bodega.

We waited as Marie puked in the library and we said nothing.

We just sat near the dumpsters by the church, Glaring at the sun, glancing at pedestrians,

Tracing our lineage through the lines
in the sidewalk.

I guess now you look
like a painting
that hasn’t been made yet.

How can I judge a beach for stillness?