we can kneel against birches
just minutes after you crash your car
the snow can turn warm
and squishy in a fertile moment

a gelatin of wasted seasons, under a concrete bridge
where the nuclear seasons move fast
under a crimson sky and a predictable cloud

the girls can drive their pick-up trucks
into boys on a ledge that overhangs the city
they can drive their cars into boy guts
and drift and hang there
after their engine hardness has totally died down

we can find a hill rolling halfway up the trunks
of palm trees that feel their trunks
being caressed by softened fibers
of guitar bodies
smashed and softened by the sea
wound together by their fallen strings