It was a long fight, akin to one long night, all those weeks
in the rocks and that thin atmosphere over there and
I forgot myself. Spit over the balcony. Not really,
but thought about it.
What you didn’t deserve I tried to swallow later
but couldn’t. And the mountains looked like a painting
and because I was in the painting nothing
was really real so I could do anything.
I saw your face but it was the ocean.
Something bobbed on the ocean I could never identify,
not from the sixth floor window, not from that far away.
Even up close, there you were, but one moment we were upright
and the next the waves took everything
and I couldn’t forget anything so it was easier to make coffee.
Obsess about coffee. And imported butter. I am
so sorry. Somewhere there’s a speeding van,
somewhere a wooden table, somewhere
a broken-down orange VW parked at an angle
and at night the streetlights kiss it
but I can’t see it now,
the sea stinks of fish,
its force was so
heavy, I’m sorry
for this and other things.
Discovered on Flowing Data. The kid made it as a competition for a scholarship to film school (and won). Bonus points for pointing out the situation of stateless Burmese refugees.