As/Is







1.14.2004


A question of curtains

i got
here
late
because
this girl,

see,
this swoop of
blonde
ponytail,
her naked back
somehow
encountering a

cold gush
of
music,
this girl

spoke too
slowly,

stressed her
syllables
too much.

i wasn't
listening.

nor was
the slow
grief of
the ocean

really
that

convincing.

no abstraction
for me.

this poetry
class
will put
my head

in an oven.

close the
door but
leave the
curtains open.