goldenrod 2
i was watching mad men while you were dying.
your last text is still in my phone, the one i
received while waiting at the bus stop under
october trees. i typed all of the texts onto golden-

rod paper, the kind you used to bring home
from the office, the color no one else wanted.
i wanted: the gloaming bursting right through my
skin; thin sheaves hanging about me like leaves.

i do regular drive-bys of these
places in my heart;
i do not want to forget them.
i do not want to forget them.

all of the griefs get balled up together
with all of the strongest loves, the truest
words, the deepest smells and
touches. they keep the heart beast

pumping. if i want to feel really bad,
push myself down to the depths i feel
i deserve, i will not think about you,
i will not write, i will not love—for days.

i know in the end it will all come crashing through:
the mad bull in search of—not the matador, not the
bright red flag—but the sad eyes of the child mis-
placed in the crowd, peering through shaking fingers.



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