Friday, February 14, 2020


I know it must sound
almost boring.
Here I am, sitting in a chair
thinking about
everything: the rhythm
and the melody, how it was
and how it wasn't (beautiful
and awful in both cases).
Out the window, I can hear
the morning gossip of sparrows,
see the determined
look of sobriety in the ice blue sky,
and recognize them both
as chordal harmony. For me,
the song is always almost
exactly the same—except
that it's constantly modulating.
It goes: I'm sorry I did that, 
I'm sorry I said that, but 
I see what you are, and I 
know where I'm at. 
Like a great burning blues,
the tune is sad but satisfying,
it comforts you as it
disenfranchises. Like a red
letter date, it always reminds you
everything that used to
exist for you has been destroyed
almost completely—
but not completely.