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24 April 2009 @ 02:37 pm
a prosey list poem.  
Scenes from the Future

At ease in the sweat-slick stick of black summer, I peel my bare thighs from the plastic that has banded red stripes across my pale and freckled skin. The bounce of my laugh echoes—someone passes me the can that drips cool relief to my knees.

I feel my life in flashes. They burn white and hot; each moment is a hand at my elbow, my waist—the flicker of my hair at the back of my neck and a flushing along my spine. I am a slip, I am slipping, there is a slipping in me: skin and cotton.

Some moments slow to montage pace: a head turns, a song trips onto the scene, the wind stirs something deep, deep, deep.

I wait at the crescendo of a hill, where the city swells and breaks into something new. Doors close, the light fades to pink, and then a bruisey haze and then the electrical buzz of just another metropolitan night. I swell. I break. I become something new.

Words swing on vines that web the planet, are heard, repeated, praised. People cry or sit straighter or fall, fall, fall into the valleys I constructed for this purpose, this gathering of souls.

I find, sometimes, the perfect moments, tucked into a warming mug, a cool day, a tune that sinks into my bones.

Someone will always love me, I know.

Things end. I find, afterwards, the stains they leave behind, the shapes I can’t remember, can’t identify. Their edges fuzzed, unspooling.

I write. The world goes quiet.

Concrit welcome