heavenlystranger

F. Scott Fitzgerald

In the photo
F. Scott Fitzgerald reads a book
silently
seventy-nine years ago.

Words have been written
trying to scrape out the insides of his skull
trying to pull a small layer
from that brain made of tightly packed petals.

He turns a page
and grave dust falls into the eye of the lens
obscuring a tiny birthmark
that was once found floating
in a slant of afternoon light.

He knocks and coughs
and suddenly my mouth is full of leaves
and I am dancing with his old wild corpse
I am putting my chin in his hollow shoulder
and when he changes step
his clothes rustle like paper.

by the h.s.
if someone told you that they have a problem with living, what would you tell them?