I called a girl she stood out on the subway
and so I stalled for her she joined me at the back of the café
and we watched the poets sing their melodies as I felt our sun go down yeah our sun went down there’s no excuse for it to have hurt me like that or for me to then have hurt myself in that way but I’m glad I can feel these fresh contortions allowing me to speak my heart my mind can’t sing when the clearing in the wood no longer shakes beneath me slipping no third girl I didn’t want to be a part of I think I ponder I slip beneath I remember being on my bed in yeshiva longing for the return of language furiously scribbling down the ramblings a lunatic loudmouth poet musician I couldn’t find her there I’m always expecting my mother and I never get her and it hurts it hurts me hurts me hurts I want my girl to have braved the murky shores of Barnard to then tussle with me by the crystal streams of Syldavia where rubies suffer the weight of the trees I saw her raven tresses flowing down her thighs and knew I could never approach her from that angle my fifth grade heart pulsing erratically pouring blood into vats opening and closing leading the way into the fog of the middle she asked about my classes I talked I asked about hers she spoke the car door opened she was gone
no plans the future none to speak of
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