nearly a love poem (if you’d accept love poems)




When I came up to you

telling that

greeting cards from imagined places

in that ‘special occasion!’- handwriting

to me appeared to be

the proper version of

love poems

you laughed that bassline

I learned to include in

my archive labelled

‘tunes of affection’


it did not keep you from replying

with an odd souvenir note

(I will, my love)

from that picturesque place

where it’s Christmas all year

to the Coney Island-like image

you found in your mail

some mornings after I had left,

an amusement park in fading colours,

that watery place called solitude,

on its yellowing backside

(join me here),

an offer in an unfamiliar calligraphy.






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