The ‘Thing’ Itself

January 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

Isn’t a thing. Is not this one?

Gracious, no.

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.

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