this poem was found among the ruins of several notebooks

by the way these are not my usual clothes
the imperfect is the present tense
I don’t take white lightly
his black when scraped carefully reveals every colour
“sun in an empty room”
he leaves her in love letters he didn’t let her love in
he doesn’t pause at her commas
if you can’t fly you can drown in a dream
he no longer looks through other people’s windows
he went to the end of the horizontal figure eight
made the turn and came back and
made the endless journey in a different direction
he dropped his roller skates and shook the doorknob


About Nicholas Power

The poetry of Nicholas Power and his reviews of singular poems in a sequence titled Cadence.
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