Tuesday, August 31, 2010

John Gallaher

In the Little Book of Guesses
by John Gallaher

I’ll make you up from out
of the living rooms we face,
equal parts singing gate

and people we knew once,
in biographical order. Equal lengths

investiture, and the sun came out
and it was bright in my eyes.

The room is dark behind
the flaring particles. The day
is twenty years ago

and Tuesday. I did not mean
to leave us there with nothing,

as I was saying car rides
for wonderful. It hardly matters. Unequal parts
wanting to mean something

and frosted glass. Whose cigarette
in the plaid ashtray?

Whose clothes on the coffee table
as the dog begins to bark?

The black dog out in whatever yard,
barking off and on

the rest of our lives.

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