I often disappoint myself,
though half-reckoning is
a wreck in the making.

Insensitive interstate a
random number generator,
impartial to chaos. This rush

hour pileup from heart
to mouth. I say I love you
like it is always summer,

but today marks fall. Why this
world spun me into Pittsburgh
eludes me. This is not a yearning

for old light, coated in cinnamon.
I laid my head on your chest
and the rest happened like history.

(originally published in Adelaide Literary Journal Anthology, Spring 2021)