Poem of the Week: Vertigo

(photo credit Lucas Portee)

Only one is a wanderer.
And when she was sad she’d go into the street to be with people.
Two together are always going somewhere. They lie down beneath cypress,
next to a bird. I imagine the sky. It fans her mountains
and waves. She’d left some small town
where they used to make tires.
Stories are made out of stairwells
and rope. I’d been interrupting for years and didn’t
know it. This old park.
The dark hatchery. Workers in jumpsuits
throw down their positions at dawn.
Not everyone can be described. It’s perfectly
natural. If she’s thinking about love
does she break down
the door of the bedroom. Of course not. Not publicly
speaking. To the left there’s a sofa. We all lived in rented rooms.

that’s how it goes with subject matter.
Nude figures in profile
floating among palm trees. The idea was touristy,
like a postcard. I was given a small auditorium. I watched over
rush hour. I write down everything as I forget it, 
especially at night.
I lock the door from the inside.

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