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" . sabrma r. clarke \,

You know the way it is. There are times, ;
and then there ate times. ,Mostly they span
like a matte palm, but yours are the picture frames,' i'& l

hanging steady when the walls shake. I can i
chase you from the solitude of glossy prints,
and,let it all dissolve to still repose again; j

but somet'imes I, revolving, can't' convince \
myself of where you go, and when that was;
the de ar es t faces lose ,their nuance,

and forgetting all your most perfect flaws
I let you sleep in two-dimensional
prophecy, bitter only for myself, because

I'make the polish peel. I'm unintentionally
adequate; up with the suh," tracking
the hours. You sabotage my ,attention; ,

I spin in stationary curlicue~, blinking
joy around in pink word bubbles orbiting
my ears, letting m~ body fall, toss, think

maybe forever. 'Or maybe jus t f or a minute-
while I 'tempt myself to be' alive,
to match the: living life, and my perceptions in it,"'"

)-

, 1. watch the wheels remember: ,conducive
my condition. A schoolgirl's shrie~,
,once upon a time when'you arrived;

chinking glass, letting, memories 'sneak'
from their frames, collecting in a pyre,
ripe for scavengers. And now, hugged weak,

I know you're real. You'r'e real.' So I'll
box ,the'photographs and keep your smile:

..