Monday, February 16, 2015


Memory is nonsense,
nothing ever really happened,
all is always only happening.
Meaning is provisional –
it interests less and less.

The things we thought
we ought to care about
transgress into what
can’t be said. And yet
there’s something adamant

about the color red: something
odd and burning in your gaze:
something actual, in other
words, which breaks
through the haze.


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