By James Croal Jackson


we paid a judgment debt
now we drive red-on-blue
thunder on Akron soft-rock

in the void into the name-of-mine
where Katie and I
must make a mockery of ourselves

I must state I am not the opportunity
I need to define
you are the opportunity

and we pretend to avenge
our fallen love's arches we are the same
down between dots that rusted golden medal

in an ocean of toothpaste of scraps of dirt shoes
of wings on our backs under legs covered in scars
of dark scuffed white on the wrong pavement

knowing no matter what I say
you are to tell me I love you and do this
until we've laughed it out