Tuesday, July 12, 2011

sonnet by Cola Hines

you might say (she did say) it’s a pleasure
(and a treasure) exotic and certain as death
(and as original) — that’s why we keep quiet.
what do you want me to talk about. How about
the exhausted, 'ulcerous poodles and pekes
on the promenade,' the backlit colored-glass mural 
of the waves. What do you want me to remember?
Start at the beginning. I am too tired to say. Toot
toute down the hallways. You left your door open in
those days. I was always frightened of the next bright
smile, the next normal thing. I stayed in the elevator.
When we kissed, I thought how long before she needs
to take a breath? And we went beyond what we knew
and circled back, outwitting ourselves. Like cigarettes,

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