na foine ting

Wednesday, May 11, 2005
an excerpt


I’m so tired of being lucky, love.

(Break me up like the last building
falling into its foundations
long after the mortar stops
as though for those hours, still standing,
it had forgotten the shelling and
percussion and forgotten what it was supposed to do
then came to itself and realized in that moment:

right: I have been destroyed

and crumbled in sudden sheepish apology and a pincushion shaped cloud of dust.

Break me.

I’ve never been afraid of the breaking you see
but of being lucky
being the last man standing,
the only one standing:
that’s what I’ve always
been afraid of.)

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