Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Untitled

I don't know why I'm reading another book
about a murder.

(I have been listening to Satie because I am
so lost.)

I found the book on the shelf
in the parlor room
of a childhood house, all
polished up
to be sold

to the future.

And you
make me write a poem.

I could write
about how I fantasize
a dark hot armpit

(“I will Never Leave.”)

I could write about dried plums and figs
which spell murder. Could write about children
walking out into the night sand

then gone as
chaff in the breeze.

I could tell you about the way that
your physicality is not my physicality,
about how I do not touch a body
that is not mine,

about how much I value very small things,
pieces of chocolate,
strips of paper.

I could tell you that I am never pretending
when I say that I would leave abruptly, headed

just toward
the notion of a dream.

I am too brave for this world.

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