But we’ve all grown sick of performance

James Torgerson / V Mag at UVA

But we’ve all grown sick of performance

For Charlottesville

Secret-laden town, 

serpentine in its welcome.

Honey-suckled rotting,

bricks, petal-pressed, you pass by,

overhearing,

I had no idea. 

So, abandon the story.

So, call out to me—

with the pickle breath 

& yellow Heinz-dolloped white wool sweater. 

(There used to be one type of mustard /

Grey Poupon did the damn thing.)

We recognize when something’s derivative. 

In the front room of the Fralin,

beside the wall painted plum & pearl

words cracked from time flanneling,

there’s a Painting of a Painting. 

A Poem of a Poem. 

Noses and freckles collaged—

The World in a Box. 

We are all pieces of each other.

Nothing is more important than this.