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If I never
see your face again
or hear anybody
speak your name again
that’s all right with me
I’ve said some things
you’ve said some things
it was a
godawful mess of things
neither of us needs
and I know you agree

merely thinking about it
is enough for me
to want to give
myself a whipping and
soon enough these thoughts
will shrink in my brain

thank God for selective memory

so I shut down
and reboot
assemble a brand-new solar system
where you never existed

this place is a good place to start:
the living room in a house
built by a national artist
the world’s finest
paintings on the walls
tasteful furnishings
of plush couches
and woven things and
high-class cooking
and I tell myself,
this is where I belong
a still-life comfort
where everything is whitewashed
and shiny and smooth and
nothing is out of place
or has signs of wrong

but I look out into the courtyard
the wind lashing at the trees
the bamboo swaying in the breeze
the world alive and creeping
on the warm fertile soil
and the moss-covered stones
and you and I are there
on the smooth molave planks
making love without a blanket
like Adam and Eve
the dark miracle of you
consuming the flame-infested
blurry cataclysm of me
our bodies twisting in
a percussive pleasure
so massive that
all history is forgotten

I bite my lip
and try to avert my eyes
from the holographic image
of a mesmerizing
projected like a movie reel
from the deepest recesses
of my desires
I’d have given my eyetooth
to be able to dig a grave
and bury alive