a small square hole
brilliant with light
you are given what you are given
the rest you take
or leave alone
abandon by the side of a road
in some other country
this place is not your own
sometimes they let you speak
other times they close the small square door
you're left with what you can't abandon
a few useless stones
from places you can never go back to
a garden of poppies
gone to seed
crepe-paper petals
a leather-bound bible reeking of incense
you cannot mask the smell of death
the raised scar on her sternum
she addresses you as Jesus
handfuls of dirt
dislodged from a world of untruth
two worn shillings covering eyes
the door opens
small square hole full of bright light
her fingers perched upon the edge
carmine color of lipstick
mouthing inaudible words
rounded edge of jaw
what can you trade
for the concept of time
face buried in wind
same old story
woman and man
how a glance lasts an instant
you raise your head to speak
the small square door closes again
a three tined fork slides off a white napkin
rattles across a checkerboard floor
a purple blouse
her pulled-back hair
consternation behind sunglasses
somewhere a bent candle still burns
a downpour washes away trash in Paris streets
her swelled nipples
cotton camisole
everything ends at the ocean
and its odor of salt
how afternoon sun dries your face
many years cannot kill the taste
a diffuse glow
through the small square hole
she tells you to come to the house tonight
asks you to bring your shoebox of moths
she wants you to shake the dust from their wings
rain makes a new kind of silence
caught up in the heights of pines
dew at 3am
the whole night sky is yours alone
long ago you named all the phenomena
surrendered their wonder
now you seek it through others eyes
that's why they still keep you around
you've learned to give them
nearly everything they want
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