spiral station

when i forget my train of thought, i

just follow the track back to you,

 

to your looping voice, a trusty rail car:

i love the way you think, the way i

 

think when i’m with you, the way

only you under-stand the vast sad-

 

ness of a lost button—the sudden

static that needs but cannot be filled.

 

the end-less metal snakes through

rusty words/languages/loves;

 

catalogued and measured out in

phrase doses: hay mucho frio.

 

packing and moving and emptying out

yet another house, seeing it laid bare:

 

the walls, the windows, the doors, the

base-boards; the parts that always

 

blended in before; now naked and

screaming: life happened here!

 

this dust, these cobwebs, these

memories came from your very bodies:

 

skin, brains, spirits, bones—each

room is a poem, each corner a

 

transference of smell, touch, sound,

feel that will never be reproduced.

 

you use it all to write a six-pack song

that you carry & whistle as you move

 

along through the harmonies, chords,

installations, tiniest shreds of signs—

 

over the wide open acres of sound: until

you come to the end of the line.

 

 

 

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