I sat in her kitchen
I laid on her floor
Beneath the blanket that her brother bought.
Of course I heard that story

And many others that night in November
when longing was silence, and longing was unsaid

We walked to the corner store
Up the street from where C used to live
And there we saw a dancing Santa
which she found hilarious
And I found dumb
but said nothing

Finally, told her in a moment of appropriateness
that I was annoyed that she kissed me and acted like it was a mistake

I went home, she called and was crying
Confessions begged themselves
She apologized that I knew her
“I’m so sorry that you know me”

She had fed me fish and potatoes. It was very good.

And she had fed me dried fish bits and Clare orange pop
like I used to have at Grandmère’s house.

The streets were wet, I was biking home once again
feeling bad. I was reading Heidegger when she called.

The problems of being.

I have problems being. I thought of manifestos to write.
Statements to make. Thing I must tell people.