Editing poetry: Olivia

When one lives in a city brimming with one’s past, there is always the risk of bumping into it on the street, or on the bus. This was such an incident. I suppose I should mention that mellow gold is the title of a Beck song.

You burst through the past
A thrown flint
It smells like burning rubber when
You screech to a halt
From eighty-eight miles per hour
The flower blooms in the windscreen
I wonder why the recycled daily
Crowd that edges the frame
Of the photograph you are foreground and I background
Why do they not see me in shining shards
In such fragment of the time
Between stop light and pedal

The reflections rebound photons
At random
Project old times
We skipped school on that last day
Kicked a ball over the sunless May beach
Each stop or miss punctuated with a quip
The pages of our movie script
Pinned down by textbooks
Trapped beneath morphology and new life
That first scene followed a bird
As it became litter
Became a lovers’ quarrel
Became your phone
Ringing searching echo
For you up the narrow stairs
Once you returned the favour
We sat on guard for thirteen seconds of silence
The closest I came to that mellow gold
All summer
Seemed to drag on in hard dirt and furious glare forever
Once I thought it was you at the door
I tripped down plastic-covered steps
Coen tumbleweed
Not fast enough
All outside the bitter pollen
Rained and choked
Dry summer storms
The footprint on that old rent cheque
Turned out to be my own

I realize I held my breath through montage
The music fades in
But I cannot turn around
Put up my hood and walk away
What is lost
Must stay lost

Editing poetry: Olivia.

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