For Charlie on his final own

To write this story, of you and your blue neck, this is softness all apart of the crinkle when you read a book you have told me about. You skip me along with the others you have told and begin, begin: Having written in the peices of women and what they lovingly wore, it was like a building to you, to touch them underneath the hallway. They are ratchets you are saying.

You are making out of them some tiding. Some come and sit in your chair, volume up, and you are not stopping falling whiskey on your shirt.

The glass is a fulcrum. Over it I think of the different people we put in and how married you are. Not speaking is like this part. The happiest people throw pebbles at the oncoming train and we are with them in our way, blankness in us like architecture. Knowing most of this makes it tinny, the sound going against the space so disorderly and sweet I think of nothing past.