I can’t taste the electricity, you said through
swollen lips; they look like mine, puffed,
raw, and chapped from the wind my teeth gnashed at.
I followed the icy tendrils through parked
cars and power lines. That’s where I found you, gnawing on Styrofoam cups.
We dared each other to fill our vacant bodies with
the other’s fingers. But you were still hungry, our stomachs
still bubbling with anxious acids.
We both climbed poles.
I found light bulbs atop mine.
They lacked the essential flavors of pepper and salt,
they still smelled of factory grease.
You found black ropes, city vines, suspended from cables.
They tasted uncooked and oily, you told me.
I can’t even taste the electricity, you told me.