You said what you said, though
and the lamp between our bellies flickered.
When you said it again, it sputtered
then was gone, leaving only a fingerprint
of smoke and black ice where we sat before.
We both want to put it back like it was
but we are chemically changed.
My oxygen and your hydrogen,
once the cradle of our enthusiasm,
drown everything they touch.
Our silence carries us to the river
and whether we are food for crows
or food for fishes, is all the same.
Still circling each other in catawampus orbits
we share chitchat about songs we like
and what he and she and they
may have said to them and somebody
and who laughed at what,
but the chains and rings and parts
are coated with your betrayal
and so the sounds bounce a bit inside
then fall back out through one of the holes
in my shadow, onto the sidewalk.
Lays there, our chitchat does, like bird shit.
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Copyright �2002 by Larry R. Moffitt. All rights reserved.
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