still early enough to pretend
the streets were only ours: holy our.
You stretched and caught the sun in
blond hairs low on your belly.
Panting, we let sentiment atrophy,
aspired to lightning. Detour #1
We ran into R. wearing anorexia and Victorian boots. She’d been to the forest electric, had her pace timed by a rush of tongues.
We knew hers was a deceptive cadence, but we followed anyway through lost time and narcotic fascination.
This is from a poem by Liz Worth situated near a booth at King and Portland. It offers both a familiar and distancing view of a neighbourhood that's hosting a pack of suburban girls on a night out on the town.