2.Without Mythologies
A soft breeze with the slippery concrete black and full of muddy
slush, contrasting with the hoarfrost, clean and hung on a
tunnel of silent shimmering trees (the ones you said you'd like
to be), and the birds that screamed at the sun now buried deep
below the ground, beneath the snow, I press my shoulder to this
wall between us. I know you are behind me but I press my
shoulder to this wall, determined not to turn around. I know
I'll see you standing, still that statue that I molded in my
mind to kiss, so beautiful you'll never move again. Someplace
far away, at some sad table littered with chipped plates, with
bad light, in 48 frames from the movie on the cutting room
floor, you said, 'True meaning would be dying with you,' and
though I wanted to, I did not smile. But now I will give up on
this wall that I have fought with, never uncover meaning behind
our rich words. If I could I would make you a raging river, with
angry rapids, supplied with rain, so you could always meander
and forever be able to run away without contending with myths
wrongly interpreted, with pains. A harsh wind.
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