Pervasive yet persuasive,
As I inhale the cigarette smoke,
Ready to abandon my principles, I—
“Turn towards the door; party’s over.”
Yellow cabs captured in my sepia/****** lens;

Gritting my teeth, blood rushes to my jaw.
It always happens, and I announce that I’m drunk.
Reassure me; tell me I’m not a nuisance.
Let me hold your hand, please.

Gnosticism is my current question
Rummaging through the fabric of time
Every rip leads me to my childhood bedroom
Empty toy boxes toppled over, uniformly
Newborn cries painted onto this plane

Christian doctrines and hyper-pop
Radical leftists holding onto rosaries
At last, unity? Or performance?
Time, time, time—fleeting as always
Even as I contemplate these green crates
Stacked atop the black ones

Grass strands braided into your blonde hair;
Overtures of a silent sunrise emanate from your pores.
Perhaps this is us? Where—
Heathens roam Victorian streets in
Elegiac fashion.
Rivers and
Streams form at the corners of my eyes now.

Kept under your bed is a rope of dried twigs,
Elderflower and lemongrass,
Exudes from the chipping paint.
Go, now;
Away from those who remember you leaning upon the neighbourhood postbox,
Next time, I’ll have younger skin.

That was before all the decisions.
Before the car was packed and
you drove with such a pain in your
knee.

That was the last time I was
thin and my hair was not yet
pink.

Before I knew you were around
the corner.  You were not yet
the last to set my mind reeling.

Tomorrow will see you wrapped
In the linen of your generation,
the symbol of a freed man.

Wallace Steven's predicted
you but I was not listening.
To be freed was not the point.
All that was before I saw the
exhaustion on my face.

Waylon Jennings here.
Full stop

Yet all my life foretold you.
The brave of you and the
blindness of my ever
singing anthem.

I leave you with s soft
flower

To

Wear

in your hair.

Caroline Shank
April of my discontent


4.20.2024