re-cover.
that city is a scar i need restitched.
it’s an argument i need the last word in,
angrily stomping through outdoor markets, festivals, and hours on mute end,
until i’ve said my final say
and am reduced to meandering through parks and shops and restaurants,
sweeping up ghostly shadows of perjured footsteps
and placing them in a recyclable plastic bag
decisively thrown away in a corner trash can.
some inscriptions i’ll have to let lie,
gravemarkers in the form of a pub that plays too much pop music
or a rooftop sunset whose night was accompanied by an invisibly choking fog.
a streetside basketball court which i’d be ignorant to even fight you for.
the seat by the window in terminal b…
less of a marker and more of a monument.
yes, the reclamation will have its permanent imprints;
the poetry section of any bookstore had never felt so solitarily relieving.
tired reminders, taciturn to all but me.
beacons that ask
though this was the first time you followed your heart ignorantly,
are you sorry?
