“01.03.2000,”
I found the words in a box and became recklessly enamored with
Them. As I watched, they blew smoke rings into my sacramental
Face. I was a blind old man, unzipping my life before them and
Trembling at the touch of cold marble. My fingers were once wild
Pigeons perched on the statues and I would sacrifice my soul for the
Erotic stillness of yesterday. The words would arrive through the nail
Holes in the century wearing the flickering faces of the past. I fit myself
Into anyone that will have me, who will shoot at me with the hours of a
Wheelchair. When will I stop looking over my shoulder in the subway?
I collected the tickets at the door, and made it perfectly clear that
Writing is as lonely as a pile of discarded shoes. Heaven is wingless and
Far away and there are no books that mention your name or mine.
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