I snap the twig to try to trap the springing and I relearn the same lesson. You cannot make a keepsake of this season. Your heart's not the source of that sort of sap, lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft, though for a moment it's your guilty fist that's flowering. You're no good host to this extremity that points now, broken, back at the dirt as if to ask are we there yet. You flatter this small turn tip of a larger book of matches that can't refuse its end, re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget again. Here's a new green vein, another clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.
Opening shot: morning. Mid-May. Mid-maybe,
misgiving, mistake, mid-take your time repeating after me
so long, so longing, lost and short of breath. Start
to finished lines means each between-the-line by heart
where hem reacts to haw—close shot—the big to-do list,
lights and stunts, month and mouth made-up to fit
the ending. Try the goodbye on for size. Lather, rinse,
repeat sweet nothings, catch phrase and a slow release.
The shower scene fades to soliloquy, last forwarding address
on the saloon soundstage, fired blanks, ketchup on a blouse,
then aftermath and ever after. I have to say,
the camera loves you when the credits roll and you play
dead. Fast forward and you flail out like my marionette.
Rewind, you ride right backward toward me out of that sunset.