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242 Novels

The Play

It's a Mystery

Corners of Claire

Her head bent, with the tendons pulled up veins
Her skin black in the forgetting and prayer of retreat
Her last movement not whimsical at all, but as lost as
Her heart full of holes, the cigarette burns, the worn spots of
Her gray, once black denim jacket, which I gave
Her hoping that I could stay with it, if it was with
Her somehow, even if
Her words said goodbye and left me with only an address to write
Her but not a hope of seeing
Her ever again on these streets, any streets where
Her ghost walks and comes to me night after night
Her voice not a word in it but
Her, Claire and all of the two of us still left alive

The tears seem as endless as fear, it
Comes and goes with the strength of tides
I want to bury it all and leave it behind without a utterance
Pack up just enough for tomorrow and walk down
Roads that would lead me home and to her
But oh home
I can’t even find myself, much less a suitcase
So I wait by the door, hoping for a call,
Something to put me into the starting block,
But my friends don’t make messages anymore
The prayer is to go on the way it was before
I laugh, in that scary kind of way, because
We keep running like as if somehow
We can get going fast enough to catch
The place where we got lost,
Start over.
But it only leaves the stadium filling with contestants
Even if the games have been over, hours over.

She had that kind of sonorous voice that kind of burnt you
She slipped it into your heart, with a penetration that said
She was there to stay, even if it was only the hook, and the way
She left those scares, bottomless and worshipful, a small shop
She the keeper, with a supply of trinkets and baubles that say
She wasn’t really listening anyways, and you thinking
She spoke for you, but
She’s not invested in kindling, the flames too short
She was a seller not a buyer back then, now
She works the corners, forgetting to look for what
She’s doing while the rain leaves little abrasions which
She's so use to now
She's almost invisible to herself, though maybe, sometimes
She thinks about where life was suppose to take her, about us

Maybe that's why the wind
Sounds the way it does
On certain nights
After trying to fall asleep,
I sit upright in bed and listen
Somehow I know this comes from Claire
Out across the world
Without direction,
Taking a turn around the corner,
Past the red sandy brick
Building with the green shutters, and
Holding me long enough to make
So my heart is filled with her once again,
Out into the deep and
Lonely endless night.