My ode to failure begins like a girl who wakes up in a dream
and realizes the surface of her sleep over ungroomed clouds—
suspended in a vague pleasure of doubt. It continues on then
like a train that departs from its track, sluicing invisible foam
and realizes the surface of… Her sleep over ungroomed clouds
troubled me. She failed too. The pungent musk of her hair
like a train that departs from its track, sluicing invisible foam.
But I don’t care about any of this. I miss the person inside who
troubled me. She failed too. The pungent musk of her hair
is all that matters in the lobby where I slept, vacantly foraging.
But I don’t care about any of this. I miss the person inside who
hears nothing but the iced tracing of loss, minor addendums.
Is all that matters in the lobby where I slept, vacantly foraging,
your shadow? Like a cut of pink fruit? A sudden shaft of sun?
Hear nothing but the iced tracing of loss, minor addendums.
Or hear something, if you want, casually, in a crevice, a name.
Your shadow like a cut of pink fruit—a sudden shaft of sun.
But that was before, when we shared and fumbled for sex,
hearing something we wanted, casually, in a crevice, a name—
in a room of lost boots, where the plum wallpaper was kind.
But that was before, when we shared and fumbled for sex.
My ode to failure begins like a girl who wakes up in a dream,
in a room of lost boots, where the plum wallpaper was kind,
suspended in a vague pleasure of doubt. It continues on then.
DECEMBER 2008