23(a)

I’m not sure.
Maybe it was the words of a playwright
whose lips I’ll never intersect.
Or the epitaphs struck on headstones
in the parking lot cemetery.
But my present situation, a triumvirate
of the was, here and now, and the unknown,
has finally learned how to strike the
hidden chord within me, wishbone brittle.

For a week here I’ve lingered,
a vacant rambling coda attached
to a meandering 4 year song.
Bidding fare-thee-well to a
focused random assortment of
paths and rooms and faces
I have encountered within you, Durham.

A festival
an exhibit
a collection of locations
where I’ve passed out, made love, and dreamt.
Within your borders I’ve
burst like fireworks cascading,
exposed myself, torn open like lost love letters.
Durham, I’ve written you this love letter,
but what I say is only a footnote
to what I do, and what I do is
a footnote to what I drink.