As I divvied up the stars
ripening in the landscape
it hurt. And that’s why I
started writing down my
dreams or any thought
I might have on dreaming.
What I thought was a moth
clinging to your ankle was
really a clover. You were
showing me around even
though you we dead
and still I called you
something I regretted.
When I found out I was
flying someone sat me
down by my arms.
I replaced every reply
I ever made with a bowl
of tulips. To freshen them
up a bit. O lonely
breakfast star! I lack
what smoke lacks—
How horribly brittle
the paint on the swing
set is. This evening
is an overlooked cupola.
And figures fish with their
toes for a stone at the
bottom of a stream
amid the ruins of a
bilingual tomorrow
manana I mean.
It’s very simple.
At last we grow into
another person. Someone
completely foreign
to ourselves. I have this
thought every time I
revise the rhymes out
of my poems. Somehow
it is here you mysteriously
fade. You turn into
something runny.
And I awake with less
of an ability to love you.
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