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after Roberto Bolaño

When she arrives it's too late, a delicious inconvenience to think of her. Tucked in a stuffed chair legs stretched and a book in hand and my mind with anything but words. Somewhere else. Someone else. Both, but contaminating me here now. The soft cheek, one curving idea warps reason and thread until I'm dumb and saturated with shape. She said goodbye into city streets. I watched her confident steps square across mine, into a bustle it might be the ocean. Heading home fizzing about the chest and the picture of her sailing across the street. The boy opposite is smiling even if he isn't, because I'm a scattering discoball.