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