depth is an allusion I can ill afford
like putting your hand in a fire
there is something romantic about it.
Late evening, the world gets up and stumbles around a bit…
I’m thinking of a girl I knew in Paris.
Was there ever a Paris? Brown eyes I remember yes, but a Paris?
There is/ where this all rings true/ no real light
Circumstantial evidence against the promise of an undoing.
Too much filament in the lamps
One gets dreamy around the edges
takes on new indistinguishable shapes
the heart of which pumps fuel like blood
through an already disappearing vein.
I’m better off then I was this time a thousand years ago.
Already the bones are filling up with sand
a sun somewhere overhead needs to be put out
of it’s misery.
I’m tired and need to unfold myself.