heavy hearts subway nights whine whine whine

January 14, 2012

(first book)

I bought you a winter edition of a poetry journal from a town I loved as a teen. The end of it had really great content about the elegiac nature of this decade’s poetry and I know upon reading you would have expanded in a great burst, like your eyes were different. The things you’d see with them were supposed to show you the cobwebs inside your head. Not vanquish them magically, not distract you with abstract quotes and fleeting flare ups of whatever it is you’re addicted to. They were only supposed to assist you in Seeing them.  So you can stretch up and clean them with open windows and fresh air. So you can change the linens, blast music, and while you’re at it, clean Everything. Throw 3/4 away, that’s the rule. Or you can just know about them. Maybe not yet. Is it too cold out to take on more? Is this life? Is this it? Sleep first, and whenever you’re ready, reach for me.



If I’m awake I will take your hand and we don’t ever have to look back. The timing: the gamble. It’s up to Morpheus.



If I see you, I’ll give you the book.



But I think it’s too late, because I don’t think I want to look at you, much less carry you Daily in my head… or your book in my purse.


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