Sunday, July 11, 2010

notes from chicago, july 2010

I think of this painted waste,
of the blight-on-white
brick-walled bodegas
where we used to meet,
still bleeding beats
from all those anthems
that now seem written
to remind me of you,

and I remember those notes from a life
when I spent only the good words
on the lengths and bends of your body,
when, less a feeling than a universe,
such love was something somehow different,
a moral combustion
and a glorious sum
of backseats, movies;

life after life
it ambled away,
and I still think of this waste
the way I first wished
it would think of me.