I’ve gone

looking for the scent of you
in words
  and I’ve gone looking
for the reason you
 live in words.  There’s

nothing to touch except to touch

and a blade of grass tickles my cheek.
Not dead, my body feels misplaced
against this slope where the sun is really
looking for grapes/not

anything beyond a reason to survive seems
too much for the table/too much
for the chairs arranged to catch Marie Platz—
an ego away
  from—I know the sound
of a chevy engine breaking downtown open wide looking for
you—looking for the speed of you—

   looking for the pedestrian way.