Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Listen Without Prejudice





Listen Without Prejudice


It's December and it snows
with the voice of George Michael.
The apartment is a giant bed
where the hard parts of love are covered.

The mattress in my bedroom is gutted.
There are nights overflowing in the ashtrays.

He clasps his hands and a bird appears on the wall.
Look at this elephant walk, she laughs, and repeats.
He rolls another cigarette and changes channels.

God is spoken. Death.
Beneath the sheets there are attentive knees.
He reads stories with his blood on fire.
She falls asleep just before she cries.
It's the voice of George Michael snowing.
Clothes hang in the soul of the two.
They look at each other as if they've
just returned from a party.

Time does not understand these things.
For him they're all animals.
They all have lessons to learn.
On a Friday, there’s a crack in the air.
The back door is wide open.

George Michael lays silent in a drawer.
That's how it had to be. He wonders 
about why he no longer frequents certain places.
And he's suddenly still, especially when 
he hears tiny steps in the ceiling.
He recalls the rushed tone of his words:
Winter is December and it snows like his voice.


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