Turn My Head (poems from old notebooks, August 2004)

The house is empty. I am not standing,
Forehead touching your forehead. Your hands
Are not gently gripping my shirt, tugging.

The sun is out, but you are not here to walk with.
Today I will smoke too many cigarettes
And stare at places you were.

Today I will smoke too many cigarettes
And touch books you might touch.
I will listen for you moving upstairs.

The house is empty. The sun is out.
I turn my head, looking for you.
I turn my head. I turn my head.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, John MacKenzie, Poem tweets, Poems from old notebooks, Poetry, Summer, Time and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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