my thoughts are little fictions thumbed through in the late
hours of night, fingerling books with gold leaf that rubs off
onto your skin. you collect them on a shelf that is never
dusty, flanked by statues of bygone days. my heart is encased
in glass in a paper weight on your desk that you never use.
so much of poetry is written in the damp lusty days of youth,
then forgotten as the bills, babies, and hearses roll in.
every word is a pallative against despair. the aggregate
of your wishings gone wasted, yes, i write about them too.
sometimes writing about other people’s problems is better
than writing about your own, but it’s all the same thing.
everything is a fiction in the end. it’s like faraway stars
that are already dead. we hold each other close and point:
look, there’s the star your ex ex boyfriend bought for you.
my thoughts are oracles that are always lying or just plain
wrong. i keep records of them, catalog them according to
the levels of absurdity. and my heart still beats inside
its glass prison on your desk that you never use.


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