Saturday, February 16, 2013


When I think
of you, I’ don’t think
you, or hear words
which shield you
against and when
I see you, I don’t
think you are
that image on grey
wall, or that September
is anything but rain and
the world of worms on
streets, sidewalks,
driveways and the chill
in my lungs and the
cough from cigarettes
and words, worries,
wonder at the persistence
of buildings bruised by
rain and you in
the dry space of a bar,
younger, though not
very different than you
are today when you
ask me, “Is it over?”
forty thousand feet above
the Pacific and hours
away from destination,
as though there is
an answer before
the fact.  As though
a half-finished sentence
merits a period.

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