The Sound of Concrete

The Sound of Concrete

There are steps outside

where she lives, where we always go

when we break up with one

another; grey steps with concrete rot and known faces that pass silent.


I tell her this time I can

‘t in written words cause I’d slur if I said them aloud. She reads

my letter and I watch

her face;

it’s blue in the warm-cold air that carries

my hand else



to our place, maple-lit, with cold only

by the window crack at your toes

where the air meets the short blanket and

the lunatic shouting by the road nothing

coherent, and.


Then she looks up and it’s as I wrote it.

I don’t remember after but there are sounds,

always, I’m sorry;

but if they went by,

they went without




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