I was
going
through your purse the other day.
I didn’t
find what
I was looking for though, you keep it so messy.
There are so many things that are kept hidden,
and finding them often leads you to losing others
you like hiding your whole life, even on Fridays
I felt bad
and my
mother put her hand on my back while I coughed.
She said
“there, there”
as if there was someplace to point to to make me understand.
I mean that is the don’t do it this way that place isn’t there here
and to mean something so abstract is to lie, even when telling
the truth, as you believe it, you’re being naive, being beautiful
It’s good
to blush
but the feeling is so red hot as to make it seem unstable.
Each time
you do
you’re allowing the cause to be your master, and that makes you blush.
There are many things that will conquer a person, and having another
make this a photograph, a tangible substance, makes things so unbearable
as to equate it with a test question you know the answer to, but not yet
What are
you doing?
Now be quiet and put on the other record, you know the one I like.
Call the
police,
there is too much noise bleating aloud as to be a public annoyance.
There are men caterwauling towards her and they sing her songs
some of which she likes, but most leave her something much drier
and the temptation to put hands to ears, to put lips to lips, lingers
