Trip Domino

November 29, 2011

All this plummet and no grace,

messy sinking suns and the suddening twilight causing pedestrian dysfunction on 7th and 8th, stumbles fumbling in heartache – all that dark to go home alone to no one in. Dead deer on Nose Hill is the huge unpatrolled expanse in which bodies fall.

Where the voice falters in misstep. I always hit the clutch too hard. I never know what to say when I can’t touch your face. Awkward socks you wore twice, crumpled. I hate the phone. The land a rough lap, a tongue of snow, 4/4 with cowbell, with crescendo. My grandmother taught us blackjack, not crazy eights. Hit me, hit me. We never fit in. We had the wrong socks. You could try to hide them, but the regular kids always saw them when we switched from our boots to our indoor shoes. I dealt you paint.

You were winning. You folded.

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