Through dank corridors
Of nachos and footsmells
Ragged lockers, wet carpets
Hairspray, mold and shoelaces
Santa Rosa, of all places…
Seeking safe spaces
Descended divinities
Among uncaptioned faces
Where scar tissue blurs
And still and unstirred all worries are traces
Revolving like planets
Or dark-shadowed stars
On ice scraping blades
Carving fresh frozen sparks
And soft sweeping shapes
In alpine dream glades
With painted on pines
Eros and Mars
Danced together in parts
Around circular lines parallel to our hearts
— Greg Hittelman
