I.
I've got no time;
I know that now.
The jig is up, the jib is cut
And I'm no dancing sailor.
The wild winds whip--contaminating a dream or two.
Belt out an anthem for me, if you can find it
in your frame.
You don't have to forgive me.
Make me an erasure mark,
still here but only barely.
Brush away my grainy remains
and be done with what's left of me.
I will make you feel nothing, now,
but the mildest frustration
at the inability to
remove completely.
A crumpled page will **** me now
if that is what you're wanting.
Do it.
Stop waiting.
I'm an autumn that you've half-forgotten,
colors fading quickly.
Bleed the last heat out of me now, and make it snappy.
It's cold out here.
Visible breaths, unwelcome reminders.
II.
I still see the ghosts of us, out haunting our sidewalks.
Your voice will never leave my mind; the insides
of my ears
sanded smooth
with your syllables,
your clipped and crackling consonants,
your rich, bourbony vowels.
There's a mall, out in St. Vital
(or was, anyway)
I think we went there for fries, one time?
No--it was for Chinese.
I am always doing _just this_, you see:
trying to make your face, in Winter,
with my exhalations.
Trying to frame the feel of you
with the negative space between
the shapes of my two hands.
Dying to be touched, but afraid to shatter.
I let the larger concerns go quiet...
...shimmering, shaking in radio silence.