De-memed memes, given forward by headless anatomies, by wordless balloons.
Everyday empty heroism--her words, for those pieces.
Maybe they meant what congealed, years later, from summers
Spent in her house on the edge of the city; green cracking sidewalks
That smelled of candy-sweet mimosa and exhaust, like cola's acid sugar.
Your collages stumble through old arguments
Pinned like venomous butterflies to those years
In the house that took you three days to clean out,
Five canvasses to explain.
He hoped your inspiration into being
Sometime in the last century, in a city studio
Standing on a table, condiment bottles of paint
Slinging the past forward until it fractured,
Splinters lodging in your fingers and memory;
You, who never read a comic or quarreled naked
Except in the ordinary, underneath way.