Last Week I Was Just Someone Who

Last Week I Was Just Someone Who Had Had A First Novel Published.

He Thinks About Her, At This Moment, In Her House, A Few Thin Walls Away, Packing Her Life Into Boxes And Bags And He Wonders What Memories She Is Rediscovering, What Thoughts Are Catching In Her Mouth Like The Dust Blown From Unused Textbooks. He Wonders If She Has Buried Any Traces Of Herself Under Her Floorboards. He Wonders What Those Traces Would Be If She Had. And He Wonders Again Why He Thinks About Her So Much When He Knows So Little To Think About.

People Seem To Be Losing Their Sense Of Boundaries More And More, What People Are Willing To Put Up On The Internet, Especially Blogs. People Seem To Assume That Only Their Friends Are Going To Read It But Anyone In The World Could Read It At Any Time.

If You Listen, You Can Hear It. The City, It Sings. If You Stand Quietly, At The Foot Of A Garden, In The Middle Of The Street, On The Roof Of A House. It's Clearest At Night, When The Sound Cuts More Sharply Across The Surface Of Things, When The Song Reaches Out To A Place Inside You. It's A Wordless Song, For The Most, But It's A Song All The Same, And Nobody Hearing It Could Doubt What It Sings. And The Song Sings The Loudest When You Pick Out Each Note.

She Wonders If You Can Feel Nostalgic For Something Before It's In The Past, She Wonders If Perhaps Her Vocabulary Is Too Small Or If Her Chemical Intake Has Corroded It And The Music Goes Doowoah Doowoah.