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May 2013
You closed your eyes on me. You closed your eyes on me. You closed your eyes on me. You closed your eyes on me. There was something about your shutter-speed, that curtain-call, that eyelash-escape. If a door closes that never was opened does its swing still reek of creaking finality? You closed your eyes on me, but I’ve only ever seen your eyelids. There’s some humor in that—my gaze ricochets when you close your eyes. Myself, I play Sisyphus: chasing their constant motion uphill only to eventually realize my curse and slide down subjected to eternity. A forever of the ****** function designed to exclude. I had a dream once that I caught you, eyes open, staring into forever from the wing of a plane. I was dying of thirst and leapt into you, landing on the horizon of your attention. The black of your eye saw me there, but quickly grew tired and retreated under a thick, peachy veil of resolute disinterest.
poem as prose.
Written by
Erin Kay  Austin, Texas
(Austin, Texas)   
772
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