Thursday, October 06, 2011

funny girl

You gallop back in intervals,
grin across a forgotten Poland,
your hand on a note of nothings
from which I'd turned some words
to beautiful suicides.

I'm never coming home again.
But I keep this little cornered smile,
and the grace of autumn so pliant,
paused fast on the moment.

So,
may your likeness die beautiful
if it ever existed,
and keep my rage for you afire.

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