lint from my collar I pulled it out of my
neck it seems
into the palm of her hand, she blows
it soff, stares at me
drinks her drink
in her white sweats shirt
with the multicoloredships
shit, I,
hear the fridge door close I look
and still cymbals resonate
throughout the room
I think of nothing else
of editing
of her hair its short
and I watch her smile
at me nervously as if
I had some other intention
other than the light
from a brush of an
artist
of of a
painter I
meant
no no
the words are
slipping away
this is no place
conducive
no conclusion
to the plum sadness I've got
in these frail, weakened, faltering
steps of mine
in my heart I felt
lumps of air
got to be
some sputtering of