I have been stopping
on this doorway, nothing went wrong
with the bridge. Our
fresh skillet finds Dove’s blue. I
paint to stay a while in that blue. I paint the big door
of your hallway, step next to the whispery night. Look,
I have not seen him in nine years so to speak.
Since then I died so to speak, screaming
on the pillow.
This is the hallway where I may see
Frank. Not you. This ride has been nice. Nothing
is wrong with the bouncing. You change. Look at
you. I was trying to shovel snow off for years. Your
face keeps changing. For years I pressed. We didn’t talk.
We escaped. In nine years or three and a half
I have been stopping or screaming. I might see you key
the mailbox. Inadvertantly, this time I fell off. I got horribly
good. I showed up and started falling. You changed.
The rings. Every time you bounce
it is a different shape. I don’t try
not to make sense. The engine
has been running a while. The engine.
I have been running and falling a while
on the bridge in between the screams.
You make me run for it. The ride has been nice.
