Blame it on this chemical affection
and leave his youth alone for a change.
He points his car down past the docks
where the stevedores fish and smoke joints after work,
their bent bodies baked into relief by a sun froze low in the sky.
He just needs to keep moving,
to press himself out through the capillaries of this county
like a drop of blood escaping the skin.
His dog, a nine-year-old retriever,
sticks its head out the other window
while a sixer of Milwaukee's Best rattles against
the twelve-gauge in the back.
He conjures less magic these days
because more of the science is known,
and there's enough science to matters of the heart
that we can model many of these disasters in advance.
We project that he will never die.
But if he had his way, he'd go an ember,
incinerated beneath this perfect sun of endless summer.