Monday, January 16, 2017

The Barrys

The squirrels that learned
all the tricks of the garden,
with nature's persistence,
she came, note after note after call,
a time lapse of honeymoon text,
with all the pluck poured into her.

What, she wanted for me? 
I retain what I retain, I move in the present
with somnambulant precision 
I talk when I talk
so what. You want.

I find myself making less excuses;
history is not fond of her,
and the counterbalance? 
Forget it.
I can't be arsed to think about 
myself, then.
I was reasonable,
but it was untenable in its practise.
I gaslit myself. 
Forget it.

My practise, since, is my masterwork,
but her recent email,
casual enough,
relentless enough,
what I'd read between the lines,
the hubris, the automatic neck and necking
of my tasking.

Years of becoming more reasonable,
so I could discount myself, then.
New youth, my youth seems abstract,
she, less relatable.

When the corollary of time,
should have, "Oh, and what of?"

No round O
I discounted myself, then,
so nothing couldn't open me to the missive.


Years of masterwork,
Erin needs not to hear of
all the pluck,
the Barrys poured into me.

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