After Lower Dens’ “To Die In L.A.”

The subject: a half-cringe yowl across a synth
frontier, pipping like the last summer
you truly felt your youth, the end of teenage
excess. Into the windstorm of higher degrees
and endless date-table romance.

The delivery method: streaming, not water,
high electrical, mesh screens, cold plastic,
still blooming as spring unfolds outside
while my legs cross atop the comforter
in the grad school attic.

The end result: a lust for sleepy guitar
tones and soaked promise of college radio
in the first four black president years,
then give me sweat and foolish long hair
and call it a life.

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