Thursday, January 11, 2007

ccclxvii

I tried to put my hand underneath your leg.

The hyperbole rocked the house. We were depressed

enough about it. Then time froze your face into a drying plum.

I handed you my business card that says I am not in charge

of this depression. Enough about death. Our

company falls like an airplane into the dark map. You sketch it falling.

Somebody we didn’t know dies as a reminder. This little puff inside my chest

is below my stomach or to its left like an unlit firecracker, a

tiny balloon somebody blew up that stays there not quite

over my heart. The diagnosis is

you can bring the house down with death.