I'm going to read three more because I have a long poem
thing going on.
"One contour in the narrative break.
Adam, eyebright, his teeth puffed from menthol's cold,
his preferred cigarette.
I remember this textbook posture,
how to read Celan in a time of warfare.
The dew from his lips an open humidity,
still, we remain traditional.
Nothing like park patrollers, men and women of consequence,
watching us.
Nothing like two four time, the slowest musical duration
for this listener.
Nothing like remonstrance of having the final kiss.
I play a passage in my fake book.
Whose name did it transcribe before mine?
The lines depict a ritual.
Our necks no longer undermine our voices."