were on the shades when I left
this morning, the bitter cold biting
my cheeks. Threw my voice in the wind
prayed it wouldn’t come back
until you come
.
back. They were on the shades when I left,
blots of ink on white plastic
peering through the slats
at all the bodies I’ve collected
in bottle caps, my morgue
those pilgrims never found
the promised, the holy
.
land. There is an outcast, been glued for days
on the lampshade
I pointed it out yesterday
to ease the tension between us
I’m sorry I always make you read the worst
photographic memory never letting you erase
the punctuation marks, syllables, I’m afraid
the pilgrim on the lampshade has been dead
.
for days. I arranged their bodies in a pile
of coins on the dinner table
you called them dragons, then, sleeping
on their horde of quarters and pennies
but their [good] luck ran out, those pilgrims
traveling the white walls of your apartment
until they couldn’t remember their own names
and I called them alcoholics, dead
.
you left on time, my lips curling with pleasure
didn’t rise from bed early, thinking about our escape
that three hour drive north, cradling gas station
hot dogs in our hands, eating over paper boxes
in my car. Spent the night in the Dark Sky Park
where you whispered in my ear,
Do you want to know a secret? I brought it for you
to the noise of the crashing lake waves
you never tasted of
.
mistakes. When we got home the next day, pilgrims
stuck to the walls like chewed gum, overrunning the place
I wish I knew the sins
they have been, ever since,
trying to erase
we gathered them in boxes, flung
their livelihoods out the door. We
tried giving them an escape
Just Thoughts 