Skunk: Coming home, to this house to which I now
know the why of our removal, there was a notion of others too perhaps coming
back, strange hope that several of us might return simultaneous, stalled out on
compound fear and failure, or just tired of being out there, most likely simply
tired, exhausted of the world into which we’d moved, and now, back, breathing
again at the air of what we’d had, suffocating daily on the dust of our own
distant departures, and with each breath collapsing that time back between
returning and taking our initial leave, the excision of all accumulated
experience inbetween, dropped out, tied off, and eliminated as that leaving and this return happen back together. It’s raining now, and it is only me come
back, my eyes to re-learn the contours of forgotten pavement for the progress
of my more-crooked foot, its conspicuous accompanying click of support, and
everything of me avoiding the possibility of being forced to connect in any way
at all to anything, saying
Skunk: Here, I am become a ghost,
yea even unto myself,
an elephant in the graveyard with
still time enough to peruse the headstones.
So I fill myself with whiskey and my gut
is audible, makes noise it should not as the alcohol moves down in. I am
drinking these teeth from out my head, my shoes are piled up in the bathroom,
and every night my arm sleeps ignorant across the absence of her weight.
