house wins on red by Jonathan Jones

I am not a silent poet

There are times
listening for

a cold nerve’s,
capillary action

when I don’t know if I’m planning
a reunion, or

maybe my second
marathon in as many days.  The other

happening while the oven fan hums
in my hallway

offering the last kiss of life
to a painted out window.

The page that comes fully automated
inactive, reloaded in seconds.

44 inches on mute
to remember or forget.

Slow motion hand shaking in high definition;
outside, the other happening,

and I really wouldn’t know if I’m
buying for fun or rehearsing

a romantic proposal.
Not counting my losses.

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