You are a Small Town in a Documentary Film about Endings after CD & FG Out by the highway past the blinkered lights of the basketball courts the outline of a missing cross above the double doors of the Super Inn suggests a ramshackle wedding. By the bay shells of clams abound. My oyster ear closed to the closeted ground. You pull each as if feeling the red of a rose petal. What else do you trace. Why is culture other. Lately, I’ve come to expect more out of reality than reality. This is the problem with finitude. Twilight returns over the infinitesimal houses. The coral increase on the underbelly of sheepish clouds hungers to be an aural blush. Sheer the night. I don’t want to call you canvas. Perennial metaphor. Even in aggregate you are like the masked trees that multiply the moving shadows. You are constantly constative. I am in septic shock. Not beautiful. If it matters. The rattling pronouns remain with you long after the lyric fevers. Do you see the way she eats the finely tuned slice of apple. Two rounded hands that leave a crescent peel. This is our fruit. Serrated. So simple the truth hurts. And we wear it all thin. Our lives forever ending. The conjunctions forever failing us. The body’s love erasing the form of your body. A mirror that isn’t a mirror.
POETRY | 97