Sunday, November 19, 2006
Don't Write About Me
"Don't write about me," he said. So I did.
we don't live
as rectangles
straight, this way or that
then turning
because you say so
dust collected on your words
all that time, unused
unrecalled
I pulled them out of that old trunk
(memory)
shook them out
I scrutinized, discarded, saved
every time you move
you leave something behind
an old receipt
(the price quite steep)
a rainy afternoon
spent looking out the window
video store cards
a cup, presented
on the first lonely birthday
books you never meant to read
soft things
hair collected from a pillow-
these remnants
they don't fit you anymore
but words
you fold, hang, frame
wear, drink, paint
you save- take them with you
"Please," he said, "please."
(I nodded, promised, lied)
"Don't write about me."
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