At the counters stacked with pain relief,
they know my name. By the ache
that's crawling up my face, I must
be smiling near the aisles
that meet the needs between
denial and withdrawal, stocked
on shelves that co-exist adjacent
to the cases lined in green glassed alcohol.
Either way, it's a long climb back.
The film I dropped that caught
you still alive arrived last week,
transformed to prints too small
to see the clouds that gathered overhead.
Like tapes retrieved from planes that crash,
they keep repeating vanished time,
leaving gaps of disbelief in doses
swallowed with the ease of numbing
remedies that try to keep us both alive.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment