We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill blew us in the door. The elevator rose on gusts of stale air fed on ancient feasts. Your room smelled of bug spray and roses.
In those days we went to bed with Marvell. The wind ruffled sheets and pages, spoke to us through walls. For hours I used to lie with my ear to your bare chest, listening for the sea.
Now the wind is tearing the buliding down. The sheets are rising.
They billow through the air like sails.
White with your semen, holding invisible prints of the people we once were, the people we might have been, they sail across the country disguised as clouds.
Momentarily they snag on the Rocky Mountains, then rise shredded into streamers.
Now they are bannering over Stillwater where your existance is rumored.
Comments (1)
speaks of forgotten memories
that is still there and everywhere
but not within reach