& yet the street is alive and filling with hitches and vans
you can come back, a little further, a little further a little- stop!
ok stop. stop stop stop stop stop. & what about sam beckett at the end?
gardening or not gardening? wistfully. metallic asphalt scrape from outside
i know the noise of this street front & back & through. i know the insides of here
like i know the girls in my photograph from kazakhstan-
they look familiar, they look knowable but far & flattened-
another photograph, of michael's cardboard altar with
bread i'd made a tape a stuffed monkey a polaroid of him
white gardenia tall his painting that told me i was forgiven
would he have gardened or grown anything?
would he ever have been lighter? or licked an iceberg?
michael finally got a chance, though, to lasso the moon
with his guts- "with you as my bride we'll be like bonny and clyde"
& the thing about the abyss and the feather bed.
No comments:
Post a Comment