Someone I once shared a bed with
is now a complete stranger:
there are phenomena
in this overcrowded world
more important than
a feeling of melting away,
but how do you know the world is ending
in the moment between the smile
and a calloused finger on the shutter button?
Each firing complication
shows us, now, 
all of the subtleties avoided.

There is a daughter with a strong name,
difficult to say.
Her name is a sword I cannot swallow.
Her name burns a tattoo
in the lining of my esophagus,
a permanent reminder
of a temporary feeling.

Heroic memories
etched in stone
on some vase of my early twenties
are no stronger
than the weekends we spent
on the beach:
on those hallowed glory grounds, 
I would forget
(like Eurydice)
and I would look at you
and you would look at me
and, soon, my mouth was full of sand
and only --
only --
the ocean stood between us.



Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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