It could be anything I type
I could be having conversations you’d never approve
of; inside I found you with your headphones on and
the light came between each pane of glass with a warmth.
I could type anything instead
I could say something about your cock
or I could pretend some other reality
I could litigate my own intentions
against the binding and salving of a wound,
forced tight, complexion bare like foggy night
the light between each cloud indiscernible
like a plane of three points, like the sound of clicks and clacks
like a count of Indians, or piggies, or anything
all the way home
any nursery rhyme to make up for your own lack of being
there, the way you abandoned everything
even self,
to go, away, to find
nothing. To find out that the things
you always knew were true really were: Love is a thing
you make, and of what you make is your own
shortcoming, and how much you hold
the outside in will tell your fortune every time; needing no
tea leaves or chicken bones or palms or horse ribs.
Converse, opposite side: You make something real.
You make it last
you make it even when you wonder why you’ve made it,
are these your sheets? would you buy that cotton count?
is that even your picture, on the wall?
But you know you type,
and this is your type; you know
black skirts and tops that slope at the shoulders;
you know yourself the way
you know to yell YAHTZEE when you see five
of a kind.
06.13.2011
