Conversation forms a steady hum
at the dinner party and my mind
begins to talk to itself: why do we
get tired in shorter increments as
time continues. I think of saying it aloud.
In the distance one window blinks and
I watch over the head of a stranger sitting
across the table. Telephone wires
lacing to form interlocked triangles of
light within one illuminated rectangle
for a moment and then
it becomes black again.
People keep telling me that we write the same
story over and I agree but am not
interested in taking that any further.
I still dread repeating myself feel that
raw thoughts are like belly buttons,
or temples. And that night
walking home in a stupor,
I imagine rabbit’s teeth lodged
into my jaw not like paper but like
real live bone, pressing into my bottom lip.
I remember the girl in the painting
and realize that we do
wish for the strangest things.
Well mine did not make me fascinating as
they had she, with her chin pointing
towards the sky and her arms
flung above her head with insouciance.
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