Encroaching trees conceal this purple depression
that overtakes me (twilight-covered)
on the nights when barbed wire lines our faces
&
Boston is receding in the distance.
All I have is a box of un-mailed postcards
waiting to fly in the breeze.

You, the startling neon drug dream,
would laugh at my wide-eyed disillusionment
with this blood red southern sky.
As it is, my ink is bleeding,
so mascara runs rivulets down my scarlet cheeks
like modern art.

I wish someone would install a drinking fountain
in your desert eyes, because this will never work.