The ‘Thing’ Itself
January 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
Isn’t a thing. Is not this one?
I miss you. Come play with the pigeons and I.
I’ve been having flashbacks, and today I get my chalkboard. Art is not immortal. It is temporarily beautiful.
I miss you. Come play.
Sundown. Soon. Afternoon.
I’m getting by. I’d rather be gotten.
Good for someone.
I haven’t forgotten the seahorse-whisperer’s hearing difficulty, or the way the street curves left around your jawline.
Like a movement trying not to be a movement.
I’d rather be ‘had’ than hunted down. And I’d rather not be wearing you in this morning’s Metro and I’d rather be a father than a frown and I’d rather be mothering your frown than forgetting:
You have one.