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I look over, & in those blurry eyes
I cannot help but see an outline
Of you, half-reclining, a tie,
Across your stomach, your
Perfectly manicured pocket
Square beneath the terracotta
Pate of head.
It wasnâ€™t you after all. It was
Brown sofa, broken up, white vase,
A decorative plate.
Myopicâ€”â€” thatâ€™s what you were
Amongst Kampala nights spread out
â€”â€” head-first, they fell towards
The edge of lake â€”â€”
â€”â€” and didnâ€™t drown, didnâ€™t dieâ€”â€”
Dramatically fly themselves towards
Reflective mists between moon borders,
Smog-smudged as if by someoneâ€™s finger
To ink-black waters.
| Iâ€™ve been away far too long to bring out the yellow highlighter. Instead Iâ€™d rather say that everything looks like it is where it should be and if I ever come back here Iâ€™d definitely like to spend some time reading your thoughts. Very impressed ||| Posted on 2018-10-11 00:00:00 | by deadndreaming | [ Reply to This ] || Your punctuation of this is pretty neat I think, it's got energy and urgency and grit and vigor because of the flow. I like the fragmentation of it and the abstract personification though I sense your apartment and my apartment would be quite different and in a sense that keeps me back but also makes the poem more about this narrator (after all, why should it be about me) so I dig and admire her, though can offer no literary comment on how she decorates the interior. You do have style ðŸ˜Š||| Posted on 2018-09-19 00:00:00 | by Daniel Barlow | [ Reply to This ] |