#67

In bed all day Sunday I kept you. On floor or ceiling, the shapes of clouds through windows. Sleep it off, and watch the spout when rising. You go down the ladder. You go out the door. The streets are whistling through your open pockets. Photograph.

On a cliff in your city, the branches bow with blossoms. The fences, men. Jean jackets. And tourists who never stare. In the bathroom, the yellow arc of my urine. Wolper chattering from a stall where he sits. Run off before he flushes. And then back, through the corridors, students, for my green bag. Adrian in tow, until. I hadn't left it, no.

Alone, one thinks of living. Capitalize the word. There for a day, then gone. Kerry somewhere busy in her car. Here, where it's always green. Erica with her boyfriend, grumpy. Say, Lana, I'll meet you in the Square. Mirrors round the edges, windows. Pass, as I did Matt on the street this morning, and laugh. Envy. The Living. Always thinking it yours. Or should I, as you say, question my motivations? No.