414

that bird had a broken wing
all I listen to
sorry, Mark

in December we rented a room
and I screamed at my desk chair

sometimes the finiteness of my life
chases my memories which seem to
live without limit

I remember the woman’s November
and her fingers in my hair
and I think now
with a cigarette in my hand
she won’t get this
until she’s begging in an empty house
and the only word that matters
after screaming
goddamn

just a mutter
an ache