I found a really great poem in the New Yorker. It is by David Semanki and it is called Night.____________________
You became real to me
the first time you were lost to me.
You were dressing
in front of the bedroom mirror,
studying your reflection
as if looking for signs
of what
passion had accomplished,
the idea of need extinguished--
damp skin of sheets; the rain lifting;
your bare shoulder blades,
their deceptive strength.
How could I not have been moved
to grief
to witness
your entry back into the unpardonable
structure of the present?
Love of my life, this was years ago.
Should it matter to us
anymore? Or that when my eyes were closed,
my left ear resting above your heart
heard: Careful. Careful.
____________________
Wasn't that just great? Someone buy a drink for Mr. Semanki. I wonder if people called him Sea Monkey when he was a child.
I'm lugging around a notebook these days. I've written many pages of observations, unreadable crap that I like paging through to laugh at how unimaginative my writing is. The red brick wall was the color of red bricks.
Kidding. It was actually a wooden wall.
Curious internet people: click here for more David Semanki discussion. (updated here) (and here) (here, too) (holy crow!)
