Saturday, January 12, 2019


I have had to let go of my body's memories of you,
I have made a practice of washing you away each morning under the shower-head.
I do not want to, but you do not want to be here, with me.
So I must let you go.

I leave you behind in old apartments, where you beg to remain.
I wash you down the drain like yesterday's dust.

In the quiet ache of morning,
in the impossibly soft Fort George night,
on a subway, laughing a memory of holding you,
of your legs wrapped in mine comes to me,
and takes my breath away.

I laugh for joy
at the unspeakable delight
that once you were mine.

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