sputtering at the hands of a journal that's taken too long to fill
(surprising, considering all the broken promises I've made).
And if I could find it in myself
to form some dream girl
from this cakey-play-dough,
then don't.
Don't. Dough.
It was just a wandering
of feet between streets,
(and the loneliness of hawks
or vultures, black/white wings,
circling
in the sky).
It wasn't me, I'm telling you.
It was only my shadow.
(and that bad dream
of the empty book
with all her lonely scribbled pages.)
----
This sun, orange, sinks,
heavy with the day
into that coastal cloud cover (that)
we love so completely.
This orange sun,
pregnant with the way you saw mee
and laughed, and spoke and touched -
(like we were half our age),
gives birth to an evening
of strange whispers,
while we tell our truths to ghosts.
This red sun
so full of things we shared
while she shone behind our backs
and overheard your words
(you want. I want.)
must surrender to This red night.
and this coastal cloud cover heaves
like the ocean.
like the sailboat.
like the sun.
----------
we are falling apart with such grace.,
hopeless and aimless
and completely in love with this pretty game.
-----
My Things appeared politely in your place:
sea shells sprouting in the bathroom like
the crocuses in spring;
small rocks gathered on counters,
the corners of coffee tables;
little jars, unlabeled, full
of far-away-smells seemed to
shuffle into the spice drawer,
full of pardons and excuse-me's.
I was never so polite as my Things.
Storming in like hot-July in the African desert,
demanding you turn up the heat, talk louder,
ask more questions -
and then an unexpected cold front would arrive
--- our lightening was never as loud as the bar below --
but there's really nothing like the smell of rain,
and me,
wet on your apartment floor.
