until the power runs out.
2005-08-26 3:14 p.m.
what he doesn't have are the seven page essays i've hidden in his basement, searching for myself late summer on the driveway in front of the house of some posibility, a belief in the feeling is enough to make commitment, most of the timethirteen months later, there's a phone call to summon me back to the city, and promises to pick up where we left off, and i, i can't say these things don't move me
but i'm trying to marry myself to the concrete and the summer, to figurative expressions, to ideals and ideations, to love in shallow breathing.
inhale
exhale
overwrite the beginnings until they're stories we can tell at dinner parties, the men left making successes, the notches on our bedposts that counted equal to one another
and we,
we search for what is lasting,
even if it's under cover.