I could recognize her by the sinking in my stomach.
The sinking in my stomach: an unwritable thing.
In the quiet of the unwritable, the copyright office,
anxious by now, sits, waits.
'Till I've translated this oversonged summer
to a single phrase: "falling through."
Falling through, as in a mirror with a ledge,
or the title of a volume of my collected regrets.
Nothing punctuates letdown
like the worn groove of a deja vu
playing out the same situated you.
I haven't put down a line in eight weeks
where the chalky tracing of the missing girl
didn't steal the scene.
Imaginary crowds toss expensive flowers
at where her feet would be.
It's so embarassing.
And I'm blinded by the blank of the lit marquee.
Open call for bioengineers:
If you clone this one girl I'm thinking of,
I'd gladly wait the 23 years for another shot.
Been in love once, but we both broke the lease date.
I'd never rent a wedding ring, no matter how good the rates.
Me, I want a piece of that poor forever.
"What's a 3-D girl like you doing in a place like this?"
"Damn girl, whats your sign? Prozac? Nah, it's Zoloft ain't it?
"What can I do to get you behind the wheel of a long-term relationship
today?"
"And I know the cutest little do-it-yourself divorce spot in the Mission,
you know, just in case."