I too lived somewhere. Life had shape
I dream of now: journals and Schweppes,
candles stubbed in empty bottles of wine,
a painted plank on two wrapped bricks lined
with midnight blue vials of liniment
and balms for her pulverulent
arm skin, mornings spent in the afternoons
reading L’Imitation de Notre-Dame la Lune.
I wonder what she thinks of the latest
poetry, she was so earnest —
it was always more than just text for her —
the faux-whimsy of its non sequiturs.
I think she’s in retail now
but the surprise is there’s no surprise — how
imperceptibly we perceive it’s too late
to be free, get a grip, give life shape.