Intro. to Lit. Theory, MWF 9:40-10:40, Fall '05

Your old hooded sweatshirt smells the same
but the machinery feels foreign, out of touch
like these sports cars in the snow.
But we never knew how to handle one another
did we? Picturing future goodbyes over coffee and beer
was always my weak suit. Good thing you preferred denim,
falling through the seasons with the singular style and stony eyes
of a modern greek god. Statuary posturing to prove yourself
vulnerably invincible in your world of words and silence.
But these days I can't tell if it was different
before the early April afternoon when,
bathing in bright sky like daytime stars,
we slipped up,
and the rocks by the river
tore through your tough blue
to bleed black and white
'to Seurat's afternoon.