Monday, April 11, 2005

apology (draft)

Either way, I was right when I said the heart

was a Chinese kite, a busted radio. The underwater

lovers never quite get where they were going.

All the buttons fall from my blouse, scatter,

and become points on a map. No matter

what we take with us, we leave it on subway

seats and park benches: the red umbrella, or

this nest with its tiny blue eggs.

Yesterday, I pulled three spiders the size

of quarters from my hair. I fear I’m beginning

to loosen my bones back into the landscape.

Soon I’ll be nothing but a ribcage

filled with a half dozen sparrows.

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