We hit each other in no time.
I mean, we hit it off.
I require a clearer definition of “it”.

We teased the things we love
out into the open
and sorted them into categories.

Most fell under the sun and moon,
others into a crisp mountain lake,
still others into a peeled-label beer bottle

we shared at a small round table
with a crystal clean ashtray
and zen sand box with raked lines.

The pub’s illumination was votive candles,
alit in machined whiskey bottle bottoms
centered upon a stylish yin yang inset design.

The building’s exterior neon pulsed red window aura
as a past life memory afflicted us
with the delicate web of a confessional spider,

spun with Our Fathers and Hail Marys
in its attempt to entangle
our youthful libertine philosophies.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

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