From The Argotist Online

THE STUBBING IN A DRESS

At about three, there becomes
for certain, discontinuity. From the car
stolen, to the one very white
car of the interim, her wallet was often
left in both. The plain sight of never
being stolen, the touch of parking
under a streetlight, all unfortunate possibilities
taken home with her, but nothing
coming of it, her day to start again
with the same relationships she held before.
This was very difficult to remember,
surely uncertain if dead leaves, if believable
there were dead leaves around, broke before
they touched feet or cruel wall of curb.
To imagine, there’s a place that turns away oxygen.
There are things so certain of their function,
they write over this stuff, keep going
on, touching the last leads some creature
held and abandoned, some creature
that became tired or interested again.

© Jordan Stempleman 2007