because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

photography

Don’t apologize.

angel, Hollywood

Sorry is not a poem
you post on your wall,

framed in flimsy black plastic
that wouldn’t hold a body.

Sorry looks at you,
dead straight, only

when the war is over.
Then it unfriends you on Facebook.

Sorry has no metaphors.
No spindly pale analogies.

It smells like your future
ex running late on a Thursday,

face scrubbed
with a stale washcloth.

Sorry tastes
like what i imagine

funeral flowers taste like,
broiled. Sorry is the sound

of a silence two
seconds too long;

is the difference
between stalking

and lingering, between
dancing and dithering,

between a kiss
and being caught.

Sorry is always caught.
But is hardly ever contrite.


this is what goes on the last page

 

we fall, as the year
into december, so
wetly longed-for.

the rush
that calls our quiet
is the absence

of sirens.
the rails we walked
for so long

now blink
into forever,
a smoke-curl

on january’s horizon.
your left hook
is useless

against the coming
cold.
that kind

of hardness
can only melt
or burn.


anaesthesia

vagabond
winds with
fingers dipped
in newsprint and nerve-
endings massage
sunlight into
skin and cortex, injecting
overdrive analgesic
with an 18-gauge
straight through
hippocampal
hang-ups
to the core of
my soul,
a morphine drip
of wireless silence
leaving
me with the
sweet-ish
feel of
a spring
morning’s
blissful nothings
unplugged from
the lower back
pain
of a world
on its edge.


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