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| now, there, through that window plane, is the red stained Saint they left behind: I ask them all heading head long off into where there is no end: baby whales give birth to baby whales. can you understand how it could be true? she wonders briefly which part is shiny and which is cancerous. I ask her for an impartial kiss, brushing my sweaty palms quickly across corduroy. She asks me to hush and listen closely to the lyrics. with my Belle and Sebastian gentleness, I feign sympathy. with my Orange and Butter candles, I feign compassion. with my Nag Champa cloud of disarray, I feign naivet�. and then I ask to run my fingers across the pale part of her dark skin she says nothing and opens her shirt� dances me to the edge� carefully now � and� �teeter, teeter, Saint of Cantilever. kiss me good bye and wish me well.� you thought you were a coy and cute ballerina on that ledge. you thought it was a steady and permanent two by four. you thought wooden fingers would stretch and catch you if they had to. you thought there was something grander it grew from. she sings now like the rest of them and I can do nothing more than wait for the next. |
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