Les Rêves de Mon Coeur
Oh, you're in my blood
you're like holy wine
you taste so bitter and so sweet
Les Rêves de Mon Coeur
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I thank you, gentlemen, for coming today
for focusing so finely on my budding age
I grow to love my dimples and my ponytails
due, in part, to your solid inconsistency
and failure to call when you say you will

My long, violent hair
feeling like Easter,
braiding itself and fastening
into a resurrection—
an empty tomb and guilty palms
from which to eat bread and crackers,
wine on Saturdays, cheese if you’re lucky

Open the window, the air is furtive
the daisies gasp and choke to enter,
Open my coinpurse, there’s a letter for you in it
My very true, very sad feelings
lodge themselves into the gut and burrow in the trachea
so it is better they be extracted by slender fingers
and read in the confidence and solitude
of a dead November day when you have gone
and are far away over many waves
and many steam pipes and a few ill-conceived ocean liners
where gratitude is uncomfortable and impolite
as in this empty apartment
books in boxes, bedclothes in the rubbish,
My forwarding address, enclosed.

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Enhancement, Aisle #3