Palm trees behind tinted glass; gusts
encumbering still life; the stems
pendulums into the sky, kinetic
like tendons connecting typist fingers.
I’m staring as if at my own becoming
of the decrepit pedestrians I’ve hurried past,
eyes vacant as a hooked marlin on the dock.
I simulated a life without you, the fear of it
rolling in like a dark horizon, an extinguished sun
hung over tungsten city lights. You had already begun
brushing cement onto brick layers; the preparation
is what makes these deaths romantic.
My heart is an injured racehorse and
my mind has a shotgun
in the way all 60 billion of us have always had a weapon.
When my memory speaks of you
it is with the softness of collusion,
a palm on my jaw turning my vision – but
I cannot return to watching shadows dance.
The sun is dead; it remains dead.
And I’ll never be the same.
– Los Angeles, CA