POssible to be Weary: NORA
Nora,
I keep waiting for you to find me…obviously, not the best policy. It is perhaps helpful, if small consolation, to note that I’m someone who has trouble changing his trousers…I’m sorry that things aren’t well, and I’m angry at someone about your trip if it’s truly cancelled. I’ll call you later tonight. Things are fine. Sometimes, when out for a walk, maybe, among muted winter buildings, a gasp! Of indiscriminate longing or loneliness; I’m never sure.
I wonder what would happen if your beauty were to settle finally about your shoulders — something you share with Caliphurnia, slipping naked from the Pacific, and turning amniosis out of her tresses.
WHEN that song begins to churn forward suddenly
I roll my eyes like I’m trying to figure out
How all of the air left the room. She smiles like
I said something to the contrary; it says study my canines.
He says, I did love you once.
She tells me about teaching English in Patagonia to anyone who would give a fuck
and two-steps her cigarette. You suddenly understand why it might be thrilling to
copulate in a graveyard. He fails to bay.
The tide turns when you take the cigarette to your forearm.
What comes back full force
in the moving final motive of the black sail and the white.
The song is the promissory note of an absence.
I pin myself to it like an airplane’s black box.
In spite of everything, someone’s not on the guest list
And what sad piano fingers you have
(Did you see Penélope at the Oscars? ¡dios mío!)
Simon
Your words are beauty!!