Tuesday, June 9, 2015

91 (3)

Let it be more abundant than the sea. What thou lovest well remains only as text. Her breath is the image of a sound on a narrow bed. To take one sport on top of the other makes no sense in this world, only in the preposition of it. She was on the bed and I beside it. We were past knowing each another, but not our breathing. This poem threatens you with sentiment, but I do not. Evacuate the reader's room, if need be, and empty the lawn of everything that is not green. An old woman sits on a low bench clipping grass with her scissors. A man walks the highway's shoulder in slippers. Two pitbulls pull another man forward, leashes attached to a hook in his belt. He's thick set, but we've seen him do the splits beside his truck. Detail is memory's refuge and its scoundrel. That's a word she liked, like eleemosynary.

--7 June 2015

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