Bending gently the small twig that made up mankind, I sit at that bench and wait for the 63 bus, in sunny hue underneath park trees.
She mellows her hands in tepid little waterfalls, rinsing the porcelain platters made of her grandmother’s bones, and if she turns the right tap two and a half times, it sings out alone, alone, alone.
He says a sneeze carries one percent of the soul, its fleeting particles dismember you into the travelling winds; and as he sneezes onto her that is when she knows, that is when she knows she will be sleeping with the stars tonight.
She seemed delighted when you experimented with submerging your ears beneath the shadowy waters of the darkly blue pool to see if the day would collapse any differently. Twenty-three years have washed and you remain breathing into the waters by the eroded banks; fleetingly through our eroded days. If only you could remember her name -
You drop your hair long, long on the same earth the lilies sprang from and you smile like you’re used to being told that you’re trouble…
They waved their hands in time; in time to see the waves come back; in time to see her skirt’s quite short; in time to see the waves had gone again, and then it wasn’t amusing anymore.
Remember the day you remembered you never really spoke to your father, but by then you were too large to ask the silly thing you thought of that summer when the last soap bubble kissed the grass.