Arm In Arm
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from a sky of wrapping paper
she does not smile
our scrapped issues
are a penny's worth
and as it gets darker
my heart is stained
with salt water and brandy
Can we ask for explanations?
(I wave the powdery dryness of my lips under her nose.
She rises and crosses the garden.)
Her mood is a variegated coastline of stones and rock.
Can we admit our mistakes?
(It becomes obvious that my words are an attack!)
...these fragments of reference disturb our account
of misfortune.
I am watching the light play upon the wing of an angel but now with the preparation ... of food... darkness is falling the wet deserted waves come to say goodnight with a criss-cross of imaginary linotypes
she made little money and was a natural poet serious, beguiling, world-weary life had been too big for her... with magnificent friendliness I was convinced of what was not clear
she said, "a flock of pigeons"
(good manners sometimes)
and continues, "you are impossible"
(rejecting all etymology)
then whispers, "there is darkness on the horizon"
I lean back and study the shapes of birds
humming and yawing...
Together, arm in arm, we go off
Living in pauses and silences between events
Held together by string and Scotch-tape
She had the habit of spitting with great abandon;
part brute and part escape, her love was an odd love,
as precious as the belief in fresh-water fundamentalism.
She starts up her car and gets into it slowly.
It is a vehicle much ruined by damp and neglect.
Soon she is swallowed up in her own individuality,
her ego moving round and round to the rhythm of her body.
copyright 2013 David Ronce
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