Nothing of Interest

You say you don’t know why I am here. I agree. There are steps here I
wouldn’t try to convince you I stumbled on. Maybe I chose to mount this house.
But you won’t close that door behind this screen– here– my face is shrunken pretty and
you have eyelashes. Eyes like what rivers are when they leave beaches
to find the forests so shining even more blue when there are greeny evening shadows. So
many eyelashes. You talk funny. You sound like I’ll hate you when we’re old
taking black coffee. You’ll finish the oatmeal and read me things loudly and I’ll tell you
how much I hate your damn old voice. My voice and your voice will roll with the ocean
and the gulls and the heat and we’ll hate the whole thing over coffee.
That’s what you sound like. You with your body like a lighthouse. So corporeal I can just
feel waves tumbling up and over and all around you and never moving you. Good
lighthouses move when the ocean rises. Your hands are ugly, fat, uneven,
calloused like you’ve worked hard at something before. Like you’ve tried
to lift something heavy gently. I don’t know why I look through this screen,
this door, at the ocean in your face. You have shown me
nothing of interest but
won’t you leave me there on the bottom step to bring when you go up?

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