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Between presidents and valentines, I dream of Scientology
Monday, February 16, 2009
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The man in the dark 
blue suit. 
His hair was clean and dry, and signaled 

a contemptuous theory of mind,
a modern cinema capable of anything.
I was right to shirk the friendship 

he scattered at parties 
where I was merely grateful
for such fine desserts.

The strong shall inherit heaven, too
he’d say, his hand on my shoulder
as though it belonged

among elaborate, long curtains 
where I looked for you.
But you were always somewhere

just out of sight, an echo of red
where your dress had spilled
into other rooms, not a moment ago.