No title (Last year at Marienbad)

1 November 2014

The fur and glue were not enough. They were pretty
enough. Just not clear enough. Or maybe
too clear. No. It was the blind glue they used. The kind
preservatives and artificial sweeteners know best
how to avoid. It was the opaqueness of the trees
along the path. It was the déjà vu; the maze of Modernist,
lost shadows stuck structurally before a phase. It was
intensely tender – too tender – little bits of fur
kept coming off. The glue stuck to my hands
like blood, the feet wldnt stay down, beside their own
shadows. My hands were literally not mine any more,
only the coating of hands.
Little stupid hands.
It was enough to fill a whole night
with the memory of grief, but not a whole year. Definitely not two.
and it was treasonably sweet. It was a glimmer,
then a squeak of hope but, finally, snuffed out in daylight
with a simple ‘Would you look at that!’

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