Overloading the Machine


The restaurant turns
and you wish I looked nicer.

I just laid down and tried
to duck the smoke
because perfection was
a power outage on
a stormless afternoon
with clouds. Quiet.

How dare you read this

I know the glass
is gathering all the dust
we must have missed
but you have no right.

I thought we should
have a candle while we talked
but you're not talking.
"I found out that softness
isn't something you carve,"
you say. "It's a grand design
you sink in the aquarium and watch
leak away," I say,

while watching
your fault lets me
down, a fragile blur of soft
mixups. The end of your nose
used to mean something, a sign
that language submits.

I can hear it, the first time
we rode the subway together,
sideways, but no one saw.

This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Epilogue" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.