but there’s no wrong way
to do things. frank talks
mistakes how art
is just pushing them around
till they seem intentional
thought is brief
an image is absolute
is that what you said?
it’s what I wrote down
last night she read
me a passage
from the unbearable
lightness of being then
hung up a phone call
placed in a black frame
we’d just destroyed
her life leaving only me
in the apartment where
I wasn’t supposed to be
it’s his
sister’s first day in town
and she saw
us kiss on the train
isn’t it funny how the sun
was out when we got on
and now the clouds
need laundered?
it’s like seeing umbrellas
thinking about getting one
then not then it starts
to rain she brings me a small cup
of coffee it’s both warm and
cold soy milk chilling
the just brewed dark a hurt sky
poignantly taut over the
airshaft
and now it’s raining right on
time
(you can smell it coming
through
the window). I say should we
go
to the mattresses she asks what’s
that I say it’s an emergency term
like when everything else is
taken there’s a mattress left
something that seems like a mistake
until you figure out what
to do with it
