This is the crossed-out face of sarcasm and woe,
glossed over in a pool of ink, bleeding through the pages
putting tireless months to sleep. It eats holes
around suicide post-it notes stapled to pink envelopes.

The promises dissipated with the dark fog that hung over your head
always,
some tearing over a ghost's crimes--


running through the grabbing mud;
you left your shoe behind,
so I sniffed it
to see how your foot had been doing.


Where have you gone and are you eating well?

08/24/2004

Author's Note: should be two separate pieces... but they won't separate.

Posted on 08/24/2004
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen