interstate love poem

This is not about
the styled
walk and hair.
It’s wet, isn’t it?
Yeah, I knew
Before it rang.
But listen,
Slam
That door again,
Rap your nails,
Post any sign
Sensibly,
And please—
Don’t go
So far
As to try;
It is still something
On the periphery,
From
down here
The plane exists
As a glass ceiling.
But your
anything
Feels like
everything
And obscures me
That much more
From the big Inevitable.