For M.
A reflection upon the incident: how no manner of dejection
reacted more contagious within me than the chunked milk-
like droplet smacked across juvenility the moment I drove
a nail into a tree trunk. …Uninspired, a simultaneous
contemplation: that twenty-something summer when it
became clear Communism’s fall across the globe signaled
the real end of any real Olympic Spirit. That summer I
brusquely detached from the skillfully nonpareil, left
behind her sheltering nicknames to go forget about me
as being anywhere near to a human potential. The self-
rhetorical walk out was preluded by the purchase of a yellow
birdy, proof of a desperation to give preciousness and wings
more of a chance to target me. I heard she opened the alley
-facing window below which we napped for a full season—
basked firmly within the immutable aroma of ever-mellowing
climaxes—and urged that sweet singing symbol of dementia
to up and fly from her cupped palm, to wing-sprint freely
“To a tolerable carnage.” That very same summer I
paid a touch up artist to color the eyes within a black
& white portrait of me the color they were born with.
deuce coupe 