By Anthony Caleshu
The first time I abandoned you was in the port town of D.
I was only one of a number of incidentals interested in
the woman in the blue pinafore with a black beret.
We were getting friendly when she confessed
her love of men was a love of reading about them:
on Wall Street, in organized crime, on whaling ships.
So I confessed my interest in her was only a passing one,
independently wealthy as I was
and without the ties to a livelihood that require so many
to turn to the study of classic American literature.
When the cops stormed the place, I was at the bottom of the bar,
arrested for ruining newly reupholstered furniture.
Instead of re-launching myself as a banker, a mob-boss, a ship's captain
cut away from the stake, the next morning
I began to repeat, over and over, my supposition
of tragedy: how revenge is bad for digestion,
how I knew I would die a dreadful death, how my love for you
was as unspeakable as self-pity ... a mumbling like the mumbling
I'm mumbling now, just out of ear-shot of anyone listening.
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Swiped from inlovewithnight, who pretty much always posts poetry that rings my bells.
I have had a night -- nothing terrible, just lots and lots of little things that had to be dealt with while trying to watch Cold Mountain which I'd never seen before because I had a feeling it would be way too violent for me, and guess what, I was right (great acting, impressive directing, not a movie I ever want to see again, some distractions were welcome).
No complaints about my day (Russell Crowe had a worse day on his farm, according to his tweets); gorgeous weather, azaleas opening, laundry washed but not folded, Big Project mostly edited. Plus France legalized gay marriage and
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