Tell It Slant

For Emily, I guess

Scraps of paper say ‘who gives
a fuck?’

Clouds say, ‘love me’ today
and they switch to ‘whatever,’
that night.

‘Heel to toe’ is in your eyes
as well as ‘bend over.’
(Sometimes our eyes say the same things.)

Something is whispering in the leaves
but I can’t hear it well,
and no one cares what the wind
says these days,
least of all me.

‘Us’ is something
that will never be.

But large, rickety outdoor fans spraying
mist on a summer afternoon seconds away
from happy hour sound like they utter
a thing like that. At least it rhymes.
‘Pus,’ ‘fuss,’ maybe ‘bust.’

Oh, wait, I hear it…
yeah, sure,
‘lust.’

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