Thursday, October 25, 2007

Thrush culled, not the whisper of

You have gone on
again into Casa Video
in your pajamas

& forgotten the name
for whatever cassette tape
could have been brought

home. A handful
of popcorn in your teeth
& the desert

screaming its summer
through the streets, lined
white with orange

blossoms. Your
hesitant steps. A hand
full of popcorn

in the breeze & good
titles for what happens
when we all go off

into the sepia-toned
mountains. Our notion
of silence & what

sayings belong to
the self. A lone wire
hanger in a closet

holding a pair of pants
that can't be thrown out
or given away or worn

again. What can you
say to that door hiding it?
Or what can you quit

saying--pass through
me, too? The moon hung
in the day looks just

out of place, high
& blank in the sky. You know
nothing could suffice.

r.i.p. JA

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