Sunday, 3 April 2011



Notice, first of all, the lazy spill of her shoelaces onto the floor.
Expect her to trip over them.
Notice the slant of her eyebrows. Speculate about her name.
Be wrong.

Acquire a taste for clothes that are carefully chosen to look effortless.
Practice speaking in a low, charcoal voice. Intend to use it around her.

Cringe at the way you introduced yourself.
Laugh in all the wrong spots.

Ask her about God.
Trace the rims of her teeth with your eyes.
Record your observations.

Hypothesize about love.
Try to be discreet. Give up.
Wrap your limbs in a ribbon for Christmas.

Fancy yourself a batch of brownies.
Fancy yourself an ashtray.
Fancy yourself a cigarette stub.

Stare at your hands.

Recall not wanting to eat.
Find it hysterically funny.
Do it again.

Notice how long it has been.
Count the names you have learned since then.
And still--

Call it nostalgia.
Call it an exercise in character.
Call it poetry.