November 29, 2005 - 7:25 a.m.
lief
i found pieces of paper with red ink poured across their surfaces
in varrying degrees of urgency
written on buses, on laps, desks, and palms of hands
the rain washed this city last night
bare faced and open,
trickling the secret path of decay, down below sea level, below the line of sight.
I washed open my conscience and spilled for you
laid myself out on the table in a sea of cards, flushed and no longer able to bluff
I promised to stop playing
and spent hours working to believe myself
listening to a sweet song on the subject,
'i hate playing games, especially this one..'
and i flipped my hands over, like new leaves,
blank and white
still red at the edges
