Tag Archives: leaving


A door seldom opens in the late Tuesday clouds
Up here in the tower.

None of us have wings, for all our celestial perceptions.

I want to fall backwards out of this life
into the city.

I have a white bag filled with tissue paper.

I don’t mind leaving nothing behind.

Take me to the silver doors,
with one last look at my reflection,
I will escape clueless
into the alley,
befriended by a tortoiseshell cat.

I want to fall backward out of this life.

There is a place that I will make waiting.
The sidewalk will crumble behind me.

I will no longer be the legs ascending the opera stairs
ahead of you, no longer the complacent shoulder.
No longer the pieces you think
you put together.

I have earned this small violence.

Copyright Kay Winter

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Touch some part of me
while we wait for my soul
to be taken and crushed
like petals for scent.

I will neither enter
nor leave the room again.

Each moment
is a snowflake transforming
into a waterdrop
on a green leaf.

The border to the next land
is invisible to the naked eye
music is the only map.

I have walked away
without a word of goodbye.

You must stay on
counting the barks of distant dogs
and the songs of the souls
needing bodies.

Copyright Kay Winter

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“When I think of Albuquerque,
I’m glad I left,”
she says.
“I don’t even remember
which red road I took.”

My mind sings something
about another tequila sunrise,
but that song was mine,
when I left LA,
looking for flowers in my hair.

We all leave
for similar reasons,
I think,
singing similar songs
about rearview mirrors
and disappointment.

The guys never understand,
until it is too late, baby,
it’s too late,
and the secret bags
are packed,
and for some goddamn reason,
she’s not answering
when they call
from a noisy bar
in Avalon.

I nod.

I flag the waitress for refills.

I hardly know her,
this woman,
but we are in a diner,
on a dirty street in Minneapolis,
sitting by the window,
and it has started to snow again.

That March snow that is about
giving up and living with discomfort.

“He was into that,” she says,
pushing her face
into a pucker of disgust.
“Not me.”

I missed what he was into,
so cover for myself
by pouring maple syrup
on the corner of my plate
and dragging a bite through it.

Though I have been floundering myself
for a decade or more,
I look through the winter light
at her moss eyes.

“You can do better,” I say.

Though I am utterly
uncertain that she can.

-Copyright Kay Winter

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