Friday, February 28, 2014

ONE OF MY PRETTIER MESSES

Oh—how I rose so
tight 
and prim this 
morning in the cold

and wrapping a strict 
scarf distinctly—clenched and breathed
deep and then—blew 
as I tiptoed 
out my red door to notice 

with fresh envy—the little casual 
billow of new smokey exhalation I'd created!—its movement 

so easy and pleasant-
ly rude—neither 
elegant nor economical—as it
smeared out crude against the blue
untiring background in

effortless-
ly disintegrating pattern. 

If only—I could 
exist 
today like that vapor—do a bad dance then disappear 
in nothing flat—sloppy but clean 

and well-
liked and admired for that—sort of

like soft paint 
falling off
the edge of a brush 

to kiss a blank
canvas—or maybe

a dirty colored powder
of clean-
tasting 
ginger—spilling 
out from its container 
of neat 
white porcelain.

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