something was about to change
my heels as light as magnolia petals, as see through
(i have been reading too much Didion
leafing through the book of possibilities)
the oxygen in this room proliferates indelibly
something in the way he slid down next to me
slipped into my wrinkled mind
slept there for a night or two
as Hemingway or someone from long ago
magical thinking has dream-warped time.
(I have been reading too much poetry
and talking to myself at the washing line)
as if I could lather my mind and this would be gone
like a stain, like a lack of stretch or self awareness
that sees a blank in others, this birdcall at dusk
that will never be repeated.
I count my footfalls now and don’t trust the simple
time flow charts. Things can pivot in a second.
I write to see what I think
and throw it into the wind’s jaws.