poem: the fiction, after

i intend to make the most of this heartbreak

and to see your shadowed face slipping by in

every man who walks briskly through the rain

and to see you in every false memory and to see you

laying naked next to me with our hands between the

cigarette smoke and then later the door cutting open

into the dust and the children screaming as they ran

into your arms and myself rising into the fiction

 

you,

loosening your

black

tie

 

and me coming up to you for the metropolitan wetness

of your fingers and the coffee-dusted slow kisses

still half aware of grand literature and dead artists

the sex life of the century resurrected inside us

and the way i make you to lie to me, slow and careful

do you see

how unfinished

we are?

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