and in the unprecedented silence -
i am still.
the cinema screen is
somewhat tipsy on soda not spilt,
and shivers never felt.
and when the children yell,
where were their diaphragms?
the voice, never heard
but felt; purplexed was the lover.
in that moment, i know i will never see her again.
intoxicated fingers, and last nights stain.
it is the child's fault when it is raped.
see i forget,
when am i supposed to differentiate
a coiled receipt; a recollection of the
masculinity is such an unfriendly dream;
especially at mealtimes.
cynthia, have we not heard this poem before?
in sweatshop labour,
we hear your poetry in village streets,
like french chit-chatter.
the leech walks the other way.
on these cinematic evenings,
i know we will never meet again.