I'm always impossibly attached to the things I can't hold on to.
A turquoise pair of earrings I got from an Indian shop.
Pearls that found their way down the drain.
A dollar coin that the vending machine spit out.
A part of me is distributed within the
gutters of New York and
in the inches of hair snipped off
and hiding in the corners of hotel rooms.
I 'm sure he'll keep his part.
I'm sure it will be some sort of treasure.
But that's how the attachment always starts,
always with trust.
I loved that dog.
They took that dog away from me,
and she was the only one I could relate to.
Oh, she was wonderful.
There's somebody else who took a piece,
and ate it.
Right in front of me.
He boiled it and ate its tender parts.
Too many of my attachments are leaving.
Leaving as treasures and with my own treasures.
The parts of me I've sent
are filling a void in somebody else
and digging a deeper one in my heart.
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