Wednesday, March 23, 2016

ISCARIOT

I knew—but couldn't exactly
admit I might
love you

probably
at bleary two
o'clock in the morning—there

on the greasy head-
congested
floor of some out-of-town

public high
school's huge and pitch-
black auxiliary gym—when I found

myself
picturing you sleeping
soundly on the other side of the scrim

with greater precision than I thought
about drill sets
or Radiohead

and even more conspicuously
than I felt
the ramifications

of my melodramatically
dwindling faith—in
Tylenol P.M.

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