Me Mistaken Me

This is me with Pablo-

watch us watch each other;

watch our symmetry,

like cars at night,

red lights and white,

Almost kissing.

Almost locking horns.
.
This is me with history.
.
Treading soft, unsayable streets,

quilted by lines of traffic,

I see the mystery in what I’d missed-

that the truths of others, if they exist,

are like city-lit rooftops

half-seen from below;

they are endless, pairless shoes

lying somewhere in a row.
.

So?

So.

Thank you for the photograph.
.
Thanks for the night-lights like cigarettes,

for your honesty in faking it,

for spreading yourself endlessly

like a whore

or an instant.

.

That’s me in the distance,

with sculptures or strangers.

With space

.

space

.

so much space for what I lack.

All these scenes are an emptying

for newness

for free-wheel forgiveness,

life described in haste:

“…aah yes, his ‘Blue Phase’”…”the greens, mmm, the blacks”…

This is why you came here,

and why you come back.

Why you bare your throat for Gaudi to melt

like phoenix wax.

.

Yes, I see a face…

…is it you?

Yes, it’s me…

…is it you?

Why of course,

it’s us

In Place.

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