“I will not go to bed with you because/ I want to very much.” – Marilyn Hacker

Who does not want that kind of stubborn love, weaving down a road full of uncertain certainty, a glass of some fortifying spirit in hand, a clutch of what passes for worldly provision in the other? Everyone’s such a cynic— all sentiment is suspect these days, all language mannered. There are at least a thousand synonyms for careful, though not all the money in the world could buy enough insurance. Long-sleeved oxfords now have little pockets sewn on the sleeves: for the heart, of course. They’re not to be worn out anymore. So then, I won’t be redundant. There go the runners in the race, true to form, bodies glistening from the earnestness of effort. Sometimes it’s a baton they pass, sometimes a torch. It’s the tiny lights bobbing off into the distance when you lean out the window into the dark. It’s the lick of flame circling the pond just before the koi swim away as one body from view.


In response to Via Negativa: My Dream About Being Robbed.

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