Thursday, March 8, 2012

'Love in the Time of the Serial Dater' by Andrea Werblin


What you lack in true passion you make up for

with dwarfish, generic desire, as if that’s ok.

Though you – in a version, as a symbol

and exemplary of common history –

might drill brain. Might leave memory

to its cyclical, demented aviation:

will not fly, refuses to carry.

If exhilaration recedes, if forgiveness is

breakfast to the willful party's hollow heart,

maybe age is aborigine to wonder.

I wonder how it feels to you – moving about

in your little diorama, pleased in a way

and forgetful of corrosive need, regrettable acts –

never quite sure which weighs more,

anger or fear, or which accounts for the sparkle.


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