Wednesday, January 31, 2007

This I Believe


I want to remember:

the metal shapes at the art museum, glued to the wall
making a slow, languid arc,
the way we talked about language
and you stood next to me. The sleeve of your jacket
touched mine (for a second, so I believe)

My poetry teacher says
the first word of a line should be the most

but if that were so all these verses would consist
of your name

(your name has a density, a smoothness)

I refused to eat lunch because you were paying.
This is what I will remember: your shirt
soaked with water and sweat,
translucent, your skin
and the contrast I want so desperately,
your skin
hot and making my palms sweat and melt

your shoulderblade rounding out
to fill the curve of my hand
and the way you went white like notebooks.

This is what I remember.
At lunch my salad dressing was sour.
You sat across from me.
I piece you together like this
because I don’t know any better way

to tell you about the metal alphabet,
and even if you said the heart
was only a construct of my imagination

I believe somewhere in you is constructed
something I cannot begin to imagine
(somewhere in you
a heart has learned a new way
to beat.)

Posted by modernsaints on 01/31 at 09:47 PM | Permalink
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