The Hours

“Then the feeling moves on
it does not collapse;
it is not whisked away. It simply
moves on, like a train that stops
at a small, country station, stands
for awhile, and then continues
out of sight.”
– Michael Cunningham
I was with with her at the station
in 1932
spilling tears on her newspaper
while she bit back her own

She was with me
In that San Fransisco hotel room
the night that I wanted to peel off my skin
and toss it into the wind
to let by body be free
if my mind insisted on staying put

Then the feeling moved on
the feeling cut it’s hair
the feeling stood tall in the orange dust
while it’s tears turned it black
the feeling kissed a girl with orange hair
while it’s tears turned their back

It is not whisked away
like hurried footsteps out of her house
after purpose and curfew

The feeling stood with us
sold us two tickets
and then continued out of sight

It was all we could do
to tape them in a scrapbook

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