Friday, March 09, 2012


There is no
Other word for this
But yours,
How memory
And back again
The wound brought
By the razors
Of your name.

Letters all pointed,
All too ready
To pierce,
To cut
And to pick.
I could no longer hold
The ruptures
On recollection’s
Gossamer shell.

There could be thousands
Of deficiencies
That are yet
To be known,
But here is one
I could diagnose
Today: The first fall
Is not the hardest
But how
It unfolds.

Among many other things,
This is what I like
About you:
Even with that cigarette,
That paper article
You burn but hide
On your back
With the fling
Of an arm
In my presence,

There is the absence
Of stains
On your teeth,
Those that mimic
On too much coffee,
Tea or recklessness,
As you blow rings
To the other direction
And quip

An apology
Or two
Like “’Sorry.”
But what
I do not like
About you
Is that you always mean it
For such small things
Like smoke
And nothing more.

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