Catherine Owen
Poem ending with a line by Brodsky
I’m not going anywhere I say, the restaurant
morbidly cheerful in the half-light of what our
mouths approximate: a ticket stub, a blood drop,
a tiny shell.
You’re not going anywhere, you repeat and the clock’s
hands fold & unfold, in the closed Capitol Six ghosts
watch their youth walk backwards, construction workers
drop large coins over the eyes of sewers.
No, I say, I’m not going anywhere, though (the bill
is asked for, the mints are brought), you may find
I’m not quite back, for there are objects in me
that float, my ears become butterflies whole
moments at a time, though I’m not going anywhere,
I might (still) not be here and I admit that one’s love
should be greater, more pure.
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