Читать книгу Selfi americano - Curtis Bauer - Страница 19

This morning’s news will note nothing

about your death, how a glass broke

from the ricochet in your chest. No soil

scent of what you will become will rub

off on my fingers. No report of nights

you slept on my floor, of the heat

those days we drank ourselves dumb,

of the billiard balls clacking and thumbing

soft along the bumpers. Of you nothing remains

but my selfish wishes, but me saying your name

forty-four times today. Yesterday I had forgotten

we were friends. And tomorrow—I know

who I am, who I’ve now become—and tomorrow,

of this I’m certain, or days after, I will forget again.