where the plum wallpaper was kind

                                  

                                  STRANGE CINEMA

                                  by Adam Fitzgerald

My ode to failure begins like a girl who awakens in a dream

and realizes the surface of her sleep over ungroomed clouds,

suspected in a vague pleasure of doubt. It continues on then

like a train departing from its track, sluicing invisible foam

and realizes the surface of . . . Her sleep over ungroomed clouds

troubled me. She failed too, the pungent musk of her hair

like a train departing from its track, sluicing invisible foam.

I don't care about any of this. I miss the person inside who

troubled me (she failed too). The pungent musk of her hair

is all that matters in the lobby where I slept, vacantly foraging.

I don't care about any of this. I miss the person inside who

hears nothing but the tracing of loss, some minor addenda.

Is all that matters in the lobby where I slept, vacantly foraging,

your shadow? Like cut pink fruit? A sudden shaft of sun?

Hear nothing but  the tracing of loss, some minor addenda.

Or hear something, if you want, casually, a crevice in a name.

Your shadow like a cut of pink fruit, a sudden shaft of sun.

But that was before, when we could share our fumbled sex,

hearing something we wanted, casually, a crevice in a name,

in a room of lost boots, where the plum wallpaper was kind.

But that was before, when we could share our fumbled sex.

My ode to failure begins like a girl who awakens in a dream,

in a room of lost boots, where the plum wallpaper was kind.

Suspended in a vague pleasure of doubt, it continues on then.




from Adam Fitzgerald, The Late Parade,, 2013.