Springsteen
Pennsylvania rips down the middle
where you used to live
I've tried to repair it with duct tape
and faces that smile
but it falls
back apart
I'd be auburn for you in an empty baseball field
under the stars
and you'd sing Springsteen
If I were 18
If I were 18, I'd race across black ice parking lots
with a crowd of strangers
and a stranger holding my hand.
We'd fall away
into loud forgotten hours
with our winter boots on the next row
of the empty movie theatre.
Can't I rent time with my bones around a lukewarm mug
and enjoy affection like a cold railing?
His body, my mind. My body, his voice.
Nothing but an exchange of fond sacrifice.
This one's on me.
I-89
The trees cut gray
The friendly glow
of the headlights and taillights
beam up and down the highway
reds and golds sailing across textured rock.
The naked night spins faster,
blowing hair off faces.
Throbbing.
Pumping gushing cold water.
Shaking alive with breath and blood.
Broken deciduous claws
reach up to feel the clouds and tickle the planes.
My mind lies to me sometimes.
Analise Hausmann is a Vermont-based composer, lyricist, and poet.
