Feed The Parking Meter

Cicadas fly in the sky against sharp clouds,
the streets fill with thorns
inside the city parking meters,

nothing deters the scratching, plaza-like,
nothing can stop the orifice.
A jacket I wore on the stairs

from one step to the other step---
the years it took to do that.
These stones I crush within my eyes

should show you how much I love you.
Instead, you say, “A comb across the sea
leaves it with pretty hair…”

this, as you look in the mirror.
hairspray to and from the world.
But soon streetlights go off in your hands

and the city surfaces again,
cicadas nowhere in sight,
your clothes piled on my clothes.