Without even a whisper,
you unmade the valley’s void,
leaving a fullness of greenery
and lamplight to lead me.
You undid the hurry of the ambulance,
breathed a little in it, shocked
its heart with a pool of sharks. I stood back
confused about whether to take seriously
the promise of the man in the pig mask,
who said that he would teach me
how to donate your blood. So many things
make me worry that I’m factually
unremarkable, which is why I take
some solace in the pinking of the sun
and also in the way you cut the drywall,
so perfectly out of sorts. How ambiguous
this costume of a mouth inside
a fortress, hoping for connectedness
with the angel on the mountain.
I’m lucky that I met you
when I wasn’t so upsetting.
Sometimes pretending is the very thing
that’s called for, but other times
it’s better to forget to be at all.
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