Troubleshooting
       

She wasn't better off to drive—weave
this paved city's grid, to lie together only,
and promise on waking to search our emptiness
                                        for a way.

We never made it to our beds, but hurried
to her backseat, improvised the friction of our thighs,
and asked blow why whiskey, morning after,
                                        claims forgiveness.

I'm addicted to her, an inversion—one open
neutral where current can't return through—
the potential to yes, home together, pleasure and arc
                                        off each other.

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Copyright © 2018 Bojan Louis All rights reserved
from Currents
BkMk Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission