letter to a woman who makes her way

You’ve gone a luminous blind.

Your paper street: more potholes.

You hide your meaning behind a parasol, spinning it (white flurry blur).

In this forest of misconceptions,

Although I guide you to the nearest blackberry bush,

While you are sustained, the sunlight is hid from us

By these high conifers; the words

We say have no echo.

I’m not even the diner waitress I used to be: “How can I help you?”

Said like, “You know where that coffee pot is, you refill it.”

You say to me, blackberries don’t grow near pines.  We starve then.

God’s around us, Kami in the fern shadows showing us everything is

Sense or green, past “known”, the puzzle tumble of Midnight’s Children.

You explain something for over an hour.  And we walk.

I escape your eraser-scrubbed logic (you’ve made a hole in the paper) or

Something more helpless: let’s say misfired synapses–

Something chemical rather than free will at work,

Showing itself for a series of selfish decisions.

I desist or damn us both, cut out

The overwrought way I speak, dressage instead of western–

At least you were interested in the intricacy. However,

It’s no use pretending I’ve gotten either of us

To the door of a friendly apartment,

In a city where the lights are on all hours,

Where a door will click; we let ourselves in,

We can get a glass of water

Or sit in a chair. No. We walk all night.  Finally,

I take off my coat and lay it down

There, over earth.  So? it’s dark. And birds loop

Nearby, watching.  Crow feathers like crow feathers, darker than the sky.


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