cut

i'll never write
about fog again

or the tendency of
trees to bleed

i'll never go into
those soviet blood dreams

the terrority 
i marked carelessly

thinking that
a photo of yellow curtains

in some cheap room
would be the place for an ending 

i'll never write about it again
so sad to see

myself
disappearing into some dark green foliage

the hair i cut
swaying.

© 2003 a.k.