If I ever had to go to trial to decide if I was hopelessly neurotic beyond redemption, I'm afraid the following would be the prosecutor's exhibit A.
What started simply as a page of test text, to check the thoroughness of my recently serviced type writer, (due to a series of unexpected events I now have three perfectly working gorgeous typewriters, though I only ever wanted one...) predictably turned into a stream of consciousness outpouring, which by degrees in the following twenty seven drafts came together into a few cohesive lines of verse.
The evolution of this piece was more exhausting than any I've written in recent memory, and though it changed considerably through the many drafts, and many of my favorite lines got the axe at one point or another, the final result comes very close to capturing the nebulous sentiment I wanted.
Still Remaking
Hurried into your clothes
i quietly broke
between your sharp hips and fingertips
swirling in the half light
just before the bend
and if you know
(though i doubt you do)
the hurried up past before we flew
was all i had
and all i knew
in smothered moments
too shallow to swim through
all you stole from me
when i begged you to
we were the shameful tolerance
of my sincerity
i remember only
because i have nothing better
than scraped knees and shaking
still remaking
the sense you never.
