Where I could not follow

Locked bumpers
with a trace memory of death
and a bitter tinfoil taste of fear,
we face each other,
rogue frequencies
with wrong directions.

You sit in neutral hotel rooms
hoping not to meet
people who do not see your eyes
but like your blood.

That coarse flannel morning
when the scented soaps
fail to reach
where you need to clean.

The remedies
are closer
than our choices.