Take. Take. Take.
Take me over.
Something’s wrong. With her or with me.
Ever since she escaped from the blue-grey
backgrounds of my dreams, she smiles.
Why? At me. Why?
Once, long ago, I dredged myself
from an unforgivable river. Unlike death,
hopelessness doesn’t flow away and disappear.
It repeats. It circles. Closer and closer.
I don’t love who you are;
I love who you will become.
A part of me.
I want to be wanted. Or wanting.
How much of desire is emptiness?
As if nothingness is a disjunction of folds.
Tense. Waiting. Always needing
an inexplicable shape within.
No one stands here. In my footsteps.
Don’t wake me from my dream. I want you
to count to ten, and when the teardrop hits
the cold concrete undergirding our world.
Listen. Hear me. But I . . .
Sha na na nuh na na sha la.
And then she was gone.
Copyright 2011 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.