And there was always someone
playing a glass bottle
like a flute
with the tip of
one wet finger, while
the fire raged and singed
our faces. It was all normal
then, all of it in bounds.
Many nights would end in
some nobody telling you
he loves you. And you would
say it back and it was true.
We died that summer and decided against
what it offered us. Degradation was
the thing. We needed to fall apart
in order to feel human.
So we came back. Earth is a dim
place. It is like our own reflections,
beautiful from a distance and improved
by dimming light. Is this why most of our
happiness occurred in the afternoons,
which dripped off our teeth like blood,
nights that entered our chests like
firesmoke? Memories are errors.
They are time. Imagine this:
Memories are Time standing above our
unhinged skulls, weeping into the
susceptible flesh of our brains.
And what we absorb are the
Written at 11:23 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.