Thursday, September 19, 2013

dropped into my life
with whiskey-blood and a mouth full of smoke.
my feet forgot the pull of gravity
for months afterward.
I should have paid more attention to what the storm was singing.
the happiest I have ever been
is struggling not to fall asleep on strange living room floors,
on make-shift beds,
beside lights strung in bottles-
losing track
of which of these limbs belong to me.

-For N who complains that I only write depressing things about him.
(And spectacularly misses the point. And is too much of an editor to love free-verse or cummings.
And is willing to admit his mistakes, and is the best friend I could have asked for.)

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