for Charlie on his final own
To
write this story, of you and your blue neck, this is softness all apart
of the crinkle when you read a book you have told me about. You skip me
along with the others you have told and begin, begin: Having written in
the peices of women and what they lovingly wore, it was like a building
to you, to touch them underneath the hallway. They are ratchets you are
saying.
You are making out of them some tiding. Some come and
sit in your chair, volume up, and you are not stopping falling whiskey
on your shirt.
The glass is a fulcrum. Over it I think of the
different people we put in and how married you are. Not speaking is
like this part. The happiest people throw pebbles at the oncoming train
and we are with them in our way, blankness in us like architecture.
Knowing most of this makes it tinny, the sound going against the space
so disorderly I think of nothing past.
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