Allison Titus
If only. Some small
lament could inventory our reckonings and we could be done with it, all the old
griefs. Get on with it. From the floral bed of our discount suite the view is
industrial, all oil slick and water tower. No permanent forest no fox skulking
the river; no river. Just the concrete. Just transformer boxes upholstered in
snow. Only this afternoon and the way we have decamped inside of it. A palsied
etiquette of retreat. Our familiar vocabularies ruined.
Aspirin, radiator, one
week for a modest rate. Thin drawers, thin shower, local calls only phone. Your
funeral jacket. My handmade lace. We have made a confederacy of meanwhile,
tender by tender. Evidence of how
we were faithful wonÕt valentine the century so rived. So fevered so
inconsolable with mistake. Silos
of dusk marry and marry the room.