that finger doorslammed dawning
four months and sixteen years late:
i am still that. of here now, but visiting.
there too and everywhere at all, just outside and
accustomed to the am that slowly gentled off
to used to be. opaqued.
(then: come here. play me the right song and
i'll careen this car through our rolling
our restless and we will sail over a ditch of
their chaff. clean. come here. bite me just right and
i'll show you my breaking and entering ways.
with wine and make me sigh just right and come here.
i'll give you bare, sweet secrets to take. you'll
carry them with you, tomorrows. come here.)
and inside the crouching building of falling
light here, at any coast it is, this pile at my feet.
this pale thistle dress and sunset cigarette of then
remind me define me back bind me today.
i'm seenless. i am words and sound and
that, now.
