Jim Leftwich, Tales from Imaginary Pasts
Tales from Imaginary Pasts
You're what used to be
called the real thing, he
said. You know that,
right? We were playing
dodge ball behind the
church in a sleepless
dream. You should have
seen the clouds. They
looked like anything
you like. Poetry, I said,
does not participate in
the language game of
being real. We sat down
on the asphalt basketball
court and smoked
a couple of Camel Nons.
Poets eat fences for breakfast
Poets eat fences for breakfast,
I said. With that scrap of
barbed wire hanging
from your lip,
you're cuter than Frank O'Hara,
she said. But she was drunk.
People say that kind of thing
when they're drunk.
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