Hemingway

i watched her sail across my eyes,

like a ghost in a hollow room.

the echoes of her feet touching nothing,

firing off in my ears,

like the incessant prattling of someone

who cared too much or too little.

see i’ve learned the difference

between walking in the snow

and walking in the rain.

i’ve learned a lot of things.

and i’m listening for the familiar buzz.

the one that tells me i’m allowed to lie to myself.

or at least,

for just a little bit longer

words are clean.

like knives and bullets and teeth.

or any instrument you meant to say,

for that matter.

words are clean.

and i’ve grown restless and listless

with the clapboard walls.

she still sails across my eyes.

but now little of it is left to do with anything.

tomorrow she’ll sail again.

and tomorrow i’ll smile idly,

wringing my hands,

as if to rip the blood from bone,

and dry them in the sunlight.