if you’re deaf…

does she see my pocket square wave in
(a linen liner frame,
white matte ersatz around)
photographs that last goodbye?
does she see white flags slave above the branch?
does she see them burn up?

she sees the same things
she was the
same things she said the
same things she never really heard – babble
meant to snare stranger
plagiarists, right?
lemniscate, ouroburos,
shuffle, repeat.

but any public record for private sale
is some kind of art
is some kind of love or something is the matter of fact;
is the matter with you people
haven’t learned to let go of yourselves.
is a matter of inconvenience for anyone researching public records – births, deaths, and domestic disputes

hanging from the branch.

i wave au revoir
to craft i don’t understand
because my process was out of sequence.
i surrender to the same rivals
i met
she fucked
i blamed
she glorified
i never learned to accept
out of discomforting inconvenience.

but i still miss her, desperately,
like the picture without its frame,
like the context of our converations,
like the content of our parenthesis,
and therefore,
my burning, burning
point.