Friday, April 26, 2013

npm: 26


We are just out of reach of the moon, your porch and lap I sit on--the hours come and go as our stories for each other build plots, characters, footnotes. One palm flat to your collar, adament on feeling breath. Not that this memory matters but it does. In some world somewhere it is the only thing existing, carrying orbit completely limitless. The only page to survive.

Before the rotten apples fell out of your mouth. When love notes were in pencil on brown paper towel--time faded those odes to an outline. You've gotta hold it to the sunlight to read it. And I love that. Love that I have to be assisted by current nature to read the past. Something about it ties together.

Somewhere closer to now I stand behind a microphone--I challenge my mouth to get as close as possible. I close my eyes and behind them sew '97 sky to '03 fights to '09 fall apart. I wiggle my body into the stitching. A pose in the fabric. I want to hang all this tapestry somewhere worth it. I want to say what I've never said. All my planets, hula hoop of shattered rock and scents. The incredible lack of weight. The incredible act of forgiveness.

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