The Book Reporter

At the end of a corridor from my youth,

I parked my suspicions and shut my eyes

and then I reminded myself of when I made sure everyone had a valentine

because it was only right---

Then I took a knife and I carved it northwesternly

up into the synapse I had the most trouble with

and I ripped out every thought of the shaky camera

and the day we were alone in the arboretum

It was chunky---

and messy---

and looked like some kind of poultice

but I chalked it up to a tumor

and I put it on rollers and pushed it up and down and up and down

and down---

until there was a shade of terra cotta

and it blended it in with my comfort food

and when I waltzed---

it would stay there pasted into oblivion