Nine

 

I

Low saxophone vibration and your voice

mumbling half-sleep-talking phrases,

Is this what you want? But your

sleeping self forgets-I never want

anything-Yes please. Scrambled,

while teeth grind a symphony of

chipped enamel.

II

You Undress, then Dress, Get Ready for

Leaving.

A Pile of Saturated Imperfection,

Which

I Adore, Fear, Anticipate.

III

Because it is not a dream.

Because your skin, always salty, invites .

Because I can’t think of one reason to not .

Because knowing never means learning restraint.

Because you wont say no.

IV

Car slides off the highway, 007 soundtrack in the background, so well groomed, short hair and gunshot residue fingers still sticking, pulling imaginary triggers-click-click-click. Empty chambers. Misplaced shells. Crunching metal and plastic, an upside down scraping to a stand still-Silence. Through tumbling glass beads, I crawl out. Click. No pursuit.

In perceived distance, smoke rises. You will be waiting, tense but determined.

V

It was the strangest thing, Like

a memory, but not mine.

Twenty three year old song plays

on the jukebox in a corner cafe’

Where they serve fantastic

bacon and eggs on too small

plates, caked and crumbing.

You want breakfast.

VI

Top Button of Your Jeans

Undone.

Arms Above Your Head,

and

the Rise of One Hip,

then Another.

VII

Already coming up with a story.

Already washing the brackishness from my mouth.

Already fabricating regret.

Already stumbling up stairs.

Already wondering when we will do this again?  

XI

His shadow waits, avoiding the glare from streetlamps, passing cars, dog walkers. Weight of every decision pushing down, slipping from pockets and mutely, nimbly, caressing the grass. From your bedroom window drip his crumbling promises. Stains on carpet. Remorse-which is always empty, like your heart, like his gun.

Regardless, we fight through it, fight him. There will be no tenth part. I am still running towards you. Resolute.

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About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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