Today is your birthday. 

Under a table 

I make a phony wager

Two more years.

Sweat soaked baby blue 

dress and a string of pearls 


head hung;a cross necklace lays in

Pools of mushroom gravy 

“I cry every time fizzy wine goes flat”

the changing





is inevitable 

I try not to think about 

your eyes

going with  the swing of the rope 


and swishing together 

fingering lumps of decaying fruit pulp

the streaming of the curtain 

drawn aside 

into that blue gulf 

the sun usually hides in

I drifted for 

 three days 

the space of a year 

weary workers 

go coughing by with tired eyes 

old people bent and dull 

  slouching and murmuring 

I will turn into some chapel or 

some library 

the preacher is blinking at me 

he changes his shape 

he changes his body 

one hand almost severed 

twenty pairs of eyes held  me 

trudging through relics

of romantic pity

there is a plum tree branch 

patting you on the head

I swear it is a sunset

 the whole time 

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