Waste.

 

April is the cruellest month, breeding

breakups out of the thin man, jinxing

memory and desire, frizzing

my gray roots with spring pain.

Winter drove us crazy, covering

time with youtube, feeding

my little life by taking ubers.

Bummers surprised me, coming over the transom

With showers of pain; we’d stopped at Angelica

And went on in phonelight, into Prospect Park,

and drank coconut juice, and talked for seven hours.

I should not have been rushing, but lissome, and moist.

And we were once children, in Bolinas, or a suburb,

He took me into his head

And I was frightened, He said, Nada,

Nada, hold me tight. And down we went.

I tiptoed near him, never felt free.

We texted each other, and then it went south.

 

What are the arms that clutch, what words grow

out of this dusty sadness? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know no sound of life

A few broken teenagers, on the live stream,

And those near-dead girls give no shelter, the website no relief.

And the dry phone no sound of real life. Only

there is shadow inside your big head.

You live in the shadow of your big head.

I tried to show you something different.

You sent me videos of your shadow walking

Long and tall like a Brancusi figure

shrouded in fear and in dust.

Frisking the wind

The homely zoo

My kind iris

What are your wiles?

You sent me an email seven years ago

now call me an unhinged girl

Yet when we came back, late, from the East Village,

Your arms thin, and your hair silver, I could not

speak, and my mind reeled. I was both

living and dead, and I am Nada.

Looking into the heart of night, your silences

owe their leering to the sea.

 

 

 

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