Sleep­ing is the Only Love


Room Magazine - - BURTON -

Lately I’ve seen your face fried onto a whole lot of cheese sand­wiches. Spent sev­eral sad lunches traips­ing your web pres­ence. Links linked me to your name­sake, a patent at­tor­ney of Hills­boro, Ohio where a wa­ter tower looks lone­lier than you ever looked out over an empty foot­ball field. Yesterday a street band cov­ered that Sil­ver Jews song, you know the one, and a boy’s back in the crowd looked like your back, bob­bing like a life raft in the ocean of a stranger. Above us clouds cob­bled to­gether that look you couldn’t pull off and parted to a cool noth­ing­ness like the con­cave theatre in­side my skull where you are pro­jected, an im­age my brain flips up­side down to flip right side up. There re­plays the morn­ing your room reeked of mul­ti­vi­ta­mins and I ran weep­ing down Cook

Street, seag­ulls heaped like Kleenex on the curb. To­day my Kleenex are gi­ant ined­i­ble pop­corn pieces. My look de­scends into my lap where even in their rum­pled noth­ing shapes I see your face.

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