Batman’s erotic memory

something about capes
about that he once saw a father in bed sobbing
about shadowed salmon-pink skirt panels
about Bette Davis            sex
in frames   flat colors and            KA-POW !

if I were a painter

                  the therapeutics of movement,
centrifuged melancholy                        I’d think her
body’d worn out.
                                                dislocations—
handbones arm and elbow
cold fields where I was aware   coming to redoubts afloat
on our dreams
                        I’ll never forget the way you looked
                                                                                                            (I used
the hallucinations for all they were worth.

There isn’t much to tell.
I’m 38.
I went to college.
I can still speak English when my job demands it.

the talking self which goes hand
in hand with the fucking self)            you ran      of course

I was chasing you