Poison Impulse
He has her
Pull the car off
The coast road
Glitter of piss on poison oak
He pictures its itchiness
Climbing the amber parabola
He lobs disdainfully into the bush
The eucalyptus aren’t native
To this place either
They poison the ground around them
Grow in lonesome groves
Their flesh is always peeling off
Like women who pick their faces in mirrors
Or men who embarrass themselves
In the parking lots of bars
Years later
And far inland
A man who once knew happiness
But didn’t recognize her face
Remembers
Out of the literal blue
How they smelled in rain