It's Friday night, and she's going nowhere
near those ass-fucking sons of bitches.
She forces herself to vomit up an ice-cream
cone. If she walks past Burholme Park, of
course he'll be there, right there among
them. It's not just that she expected more—
she banked her whole life on him having
a little class. Over at Burholme, they've got
splendor going in the grass. Nothing can
bring back the casual hours. Though it's
past dark, kids are still driving putts. The
guys wonder whether they'll get hit.
You don't connect it:
our lovemaking with
identity questions, any
more than my fingers
pointing at the moon
are, in fact, a kind of
moon, that can enter
your physical entity &
give you a new (albeit
brief) identity. I weave
in & out of you, in &
out of me, you don't
get time to say I'm this
or that, because how
can I be, being entity?
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