Wednesday, March 23, 2016


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

at bleary two
o'clock in the morning—there

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

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

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.