Surely you can imagine the street, the stones, the carriages,
the table, the coffee, and the coming revolution.
Or maybe you’re just thinking about an old friend,
because today is his birthday.
You remember sitting near the curb, beneath a tree,
and how your cup somehow became full of tiny spring spiders, but not his.
And then, the last time you were to meet, you waited alone,
not knowing he was in bed dead at home.
And yet you take such pride in your own intelligence,
forgetting the earth is a ripe plum in a boy’s bleeding shirt pocket.
Or is it your heart?
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