In PencilErik Sweet
In pencil the words seem so tired A fountain jokes with the paintings on the wall In Montana, the light is all but a postcard Meadows upon meadows of concrete, gently mocking the grass It all comes to a triangle—protracted with elevator shoes Dusk, the infants are all tucked in twice Wrong it seems to be wishing for somewhere else We all do it, sensationalizing our births If your birth was not filmed, she said, then you were never born. I believed her, and went on living an invisible life Pencil, I wish you were here right now, with me. Sometimes I wish you were never born; I live in your shadow. I like things to be erased too. The paintings, could not succeed after you Glancing flowers turn to hand-pumping fires The thoughts fade out and scrawled in lead lights like the break at the side of your hand.
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