cambridge, 2004


i am sick to death of supine struggles, jocular intentions
and the feeling that i’m going to be alone beyond the next
cigarette. make an incision in my words, tell me what’s inside.
i spend too much time thinking about all the poems i’m going
to write after you’re dead. standing at the edge of the rooftop,
i wonder who will write poems about me when i’m dead. this was
in cambridge, 2004, when i was in love with a girl who didn’t
shave her armpits and confessed to not flushing the toilet
in order to conserve water. i was not concerned about conserving
anything in particular, least of all my breath. but nobody ever
tells you to conserve death. the angel of vertigo holds a finger
to its lips, whispers sssh. when there is silence i will have
no more poems. you will write the memory of me and sing
of my fallen grace to the pistils of flowers, and that will
be enough.

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