Adrian Sobol

After Buying a Small Coffee

Look, if I had the patience to summer here, I would. I’d put a lake next to your cashbox. Press my mouth to what steam remains from our collective song & let it fascinate me with that delicate scald. But it’s winter. Can’t you see the coats I’ve grown in my greenhouse? Can’t you see the semi-gloss of my shoes? You’ve paid & you still insist on pleasantries. Even flirtation at a safe distance. Counter space! You keep us from traditionally cloying beastly luster! I can be garrulous too in my spare time. I practice in a mirror. Put my arms out, exact change right there, waiting for someone—anyone—to arrive.


Sticky Fingers

Listen to “Sister Morphine”
—————————-& if it remains
outside personal experience,
———-try “Wild Horses” which (given
its attention to allotment
of space) can be that stone
in the bottom of yr milk glass
———you were told about back
———in yr spooky
———boo radley-looking grade school
you walked through for enough years
———to confuse its unbombed out
———sidewalk-tense lipgloss babes
———with what turned up in the sky
———to marvel at what wasn’t turning back