an evening theorywe could be one of those desolate things
that hums sometimes. our sense of purpose
gets muddled by unlit Christmas lights
that live like fireflies smiling
with their mouths wide open.
our mornings are a lost story
that's revealed in the shadow
of a lampshade cloth and it looks
better with a glass in hand.
most days, it is going forward that saves us.
we pretend carnage is a tattoo
that can be rubbed off, that we're the type
to let a rain gutter stay after the house is gone.
our sex translates into an old film flickering.
some single, fluid motion lost like sugar
on linoleum. but this ugly body
learns to trust instruction
when you tell me the bone
of every woman ends in you
& we take each other's hand,
because we know that looking means
all we remember will stare back.
isn't that a good start?
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