I don’t remember you, but you keep coming back.
Is that what you think of me?
I’ve got two sick children. My little girl
has a hole in her belly
and we have to pour milk down her throat.
So much the better, make it difficult and meaningless
as when we turn into the park and hope
the conversation picks up somehow.
My heart wasn’t in it, I think you knew even then,
but I wanted to rearrange thin bars of thought
into a ladder-like system of total devotion to the present
in its fabulous vanity. You were beautiful to me,
your lapel against your chin and the orange light
flinging itself from your mouth.
At the top of the hill you could see all four walls,
it was windy,
the ceremony was invested with deepening resolve,
reflection, amazement, cast out of the boredom
at the center of all things.
I walked down the middle of the bus.
I took a photograph.
I read about a town in East Texas
where a crust lowered onto all nakedness,
then dusted away with every glance.
I plugged in my computer
and looked around at the mess
as you moved
through subtle modulations of texture
from one end of the room
to the other. Something
something something, something
Copyright © 2013 Paul Killebrew
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.