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Seven

Is there another world you know?
I’m keeping a rigour on the snow. 

To wait and see

See it quiver from below

Below the leaves.

On loving that heavenly face…

Time is the only thing I know
The middle of your mixed up six words
Nothing more.

My love is proud, my love is small

My love is a Friday pouring
And a black wave cresting and
Crashing down the living room shore.

You say it in a foreign tongue.

…But you don’t know a thing, about the things I’ve done.

One

Park my car, get out, lock my doors. Walk in, take off my shoes. Take the stairs to the basement, take off my coat. Walk into the bathroom, turn on the light, take off my pants, my shirt, my bra. Brush my teeth, wash my face.

Grab a box of whitening strips, put the top strip on, let my hair down, turn my back to the mirror, look over my shoulder. The waves hit the small of my back now – you need a trim. Look in the mirror – Sigh.

Turn off the light.

Walk into the den – bean bag in the corner. Put on oversized t-shirt, grab my dead uncles blanket. Sit in the bean bag, put the record on the turn table, switch the flip to ‘repeat.’ Plug the headphones in, put them on your head.

Grab the pillow on the floor. Move the needle to the record. Lean back, cover your legs with the blanket. Put the pillow over your face – scream.

 

Winter Beat