An all night barbeque. a dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night is thinking. It's thinking of love.
It's thinking of stabbing us to death...
Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
Im sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters
History is a little man in a brown suit,
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. there are many names in history.
None of them our ours.
He had green eyes.
So I wanted to sleep with him.
Green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool--
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
...
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good when moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said
so it's summer, so it's suicide
so we're helpless in sleep struggling at the bottom of the swimming pool.
...
We still groped for eachother in the backstairs or in parked cars
as the roads around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through a glass
br />
br />
br />
