12/13/2010 0 Comments just a storyfirst it was your eyes: my same hue but bolder, shaped like up-turned raindrops (gravity eludes you). second was your hair: waving like a leaf on top of a quiet bobbing lake. I happen to know there’s a model in this room. I happen to know pictures exist of her that make her the size of the sky and just as inescapable. you are a daisy. my dad kills daisies, says they’re a weed, but you are my daisy. third was your mouth: (only when I allow myself to look at it). fourth was your poetry,
which made me hope that after class you’d wait behind a concrete pillar to take me upstairs, tell me why you worry and let me kiss your forehead. your name is the meaning of mine your name is the meaning of mine! I love you and I don’t know you! more than divine, complicated lyrical odes, more than average human beings or the tyranny and oppression of late, you have my pen scribbling, careening through the page longer than poverty and injustice wills it. longer than the voices in my head command it! please tell me you were there beside the lake that night in the town of red and white, tell me you were in the orange streetlight, the summer star. I see you reading this. your forehead wrinkles. it does that when you read poetry that’s like a riddle. I hope your brow is knit, looking down on me here. fifth was your handwriting. I thought it was mine. I think you must know something of automobiles or alcoholism or the band Queen. I remember when I worried you thought I was a nazi. I hear you in the Mediterranean Sun Dance, I see you in my own reflection. I happen to know there is a model in this room, but you are my daisy. my dad kills daisies, says they're a weed. the smart one knows everything is not a metaphor. sixth was your name.
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