was it casual,
the dress?
After months dark as
the lakes behind the
black horse’s eyes,
the glass of lost beauty,
daze of knowing
what is now
is what I lived for
and still die of memory,
of the You on the brown couch,
thighs,
how you came to me already damaged,
and how the way
something starts to bloom
too soon, and snow punishing it:
silence, baby.
Don’t look for another café.
There is none.
There is nothing.
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Lifshin has published more than 120 books and chapbooks.
