notes,
when we walk easily and lowly
on an avenue, with a camera, with two hearts
we see and we have seen it
    we breaststroke through a night so
    dark and slovenly as to turn a sunrise purple
    to red, ashamed

books,
when we love properly
when we speak slowly to better hear
the dripping of a warm and raining noon
    there was nowhere left to go for us
    coolly dryly, bookish we sat
    and to a boyish morning, hurtled

will we sit again, as we walk
will we again open those books and laugh

I sat today, in between of two concrete blocks
light came pouring                  from the bus circle

I was sitting down and I was calmly
and I was calmly        nearly      tired

like from the obtuse dream from an earlier night
couldn't    hear much other than   birds and voices

I like to think

that you like to think of me

sleeping or smiling

the ceiling fan whispers

to me

that you do

your letters
your pictures
scatter my desk
whether I read them
or not
they’re all over

but it’s not all over

even if I am alone

I have that

to be thankful for;

that I may silently

wordlessly

think of you

and thank you

a man

spoke softly

rarely

never painted pictures only

etchings; creeping

flaking soft

white space

slender, black loose

he never spilled

never toppled

what

was this man

what was it

made him

what hour

poured him forth

what pastel day

of which year molded

this man; cursed him

to place him among

hyenas

outside
a woman shouts at a man beside her
apparently she: always giving
he: always taking
-
she walked into performance
shouted over the music, friends
stumbling drunk
-
noted: string hung from a wall that
looked paintingless.