Sunday, June 17, 2012


They could try to find me, if they had a reason. They could try to find me, if they had the nerve. Look all they want, it wouldn't matter. Look right at me, I'll still be gone. The trick is to stand on the seams of your shadow. The trick is to leave nothing they would want behind.

I am always out of sorts. I am never where I am supposed to be. My reaction shots read like stock footage. My lips never sync up to the things I say. I grumble though the days and slander every night. I never bet against the house until I've seen it. Every time I call a bluff I lie.

Now my last cigar is smoke and cinders. Now the finches all invade the pines. I listen as the wind releases. I listen as the diamond dies. The sky dies down, like love  or speeches. The light leaves just like they said it would. They'll never find me, though I mostly mark the map. They'll never find me, though I think I'm in the book. The smoke runs circles, and the little finches don't mind. The dusk seems certain as I slip right past.

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