12 Oct. 1969

Unmadeup, your eyes are tiny pools, their

orbits decayed into shallow wells, scraped

out by some forgotten agricultural machine

from the uneven surrounding landscape. A

tissue, gloriously Byzantinely crumpled in your

left hand. A labyrinth from which none of

your drippings can escape. I thought of the

last couch you slumped against. Ivory, with

inlaid patterns of slightly-less-ivory, nine

feet long and slightly curved, hugging

the crescent coffee table you bought from

that chocolate-scented bazaar. I took and laid you

down in front of me and you shook

less and less violently, then stopped. I

don’t know if you slept, then. You were

never a reliable judge. But an hour we spent

enmeshed there, more or less.

The empty dish you placed at the center

of the table seems an apt metaphor.

I stared at it and thought nothing.

--RFRY, 03 Aug 06

This is a version of 12 Oct 1969.