Monday, April 25, 2005


half-asleep I watch you leave
my eyes half-open half-broken
goodbyes half-spoken
pneumatic half-closed rheumatic
releasing a hiss of air
a kiss of steam
(like the cracked safe in my dream
you told me was my heart)

It doesn’t matter what I see
or think I see
(if I hold my hand far or near, I
can still see only half of it, and if
I fold my hand, then only half of half);
what matters is the weight of my eyelids
half-suspended half-upended
its tonnage that threatens to shut away light
(slam the window or close it gently,
I can only see your back anyway,
only that half of you)
and movement and cigarette smoke;
a snapshot blink that seems inevitable

I know nothing about your half-life

All I can do is embrace
the half of you that stays.


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