santos scribes

that word. rattles its own corner of personal history with a particular kind of longing. not for time or place but for renditions of self, roads not taken. and so, its top note is familiar, but i can’t place it; is it middle school? high school? or i suppose it may be tucked down there among the blurred haze of tender shards between june senior year & september carle hall. scartissue that i wish i saw like the fat colorado moon hanging low over hygiene road, i couldn’t ignore it, i tried; how weightless words appear on the page or the screen but hardly ever are. i can remember the thrill of being alive then, the drum in my chest, my allies, my enemies- getting lost every time, on the way back from know where: left boot white laces, right boot black. he rode a slender motorcross bike with the word “FOX” running down his thigh but he was more tame stallion than sly fox and the track they raced around was nothing but a collection of dirt and noises, simultaneous and humming with sweat and engine mud. impossible to discern or figure out, we’d spectate and saturate ourselves absorbing atmosphere like vertical lines in a horizontal sky. roadtrips don’t last though they linger like every third book i read or like snow falling as rain on freshly drawn pea tendrils. like you. like me.