Ali Beemsterboer Motives

Never mind about the dream, no one likes to listen
to those stories. I woke up to myself, stealing
grapes from the fridge somehow didn’t choke
but wondered what would happen if I did—no one
to leave a penny to, no wishing fountain wide
enough to catch my breath. I want to leave you
because I’m not perfect. You are already in it,
the rest of our lives, slogging through with mud
boots up to your knees while I seep through
every crack in the ground. One minute
I am eating chocolate fondue and the next you are
static. The porch, woods detach from form, my eyes
can’t track and you are the only color. I feel water
in slow motion when you say a plump rain drop
fell on your foot. Can you hear me calling?
The rain is an electric wire, perfectly taut.


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