This line is for your need of an island and your modern execution of distance. This line is for the way you look in the morning (as brilliant as in the back of a crashed car at midnight). This line, that lacks pain killers, is for the injection of reverse repulsion I suffer at your invasion of my oxygen. This line is for the way your frame moves away from me (without making my purpose come true). This line is for the sweat and the ancient postponement of closure. Poetry is no substitute for survival. For a moment there, I was bombarded by a pretty girl and the clothes I swim through to care for her. I am thinking of a capricious girl and her pictures inside my copy of Hemingway's "Men without Women".
Photo (c) Jonathan Leder