Dilapidated
looking at pictures of broken buildings,
taken in an attempt to save that which is
at its very basic just a form
with a lot of memories, in the hope
that someday we could restore
its function.
and i think of you and i, all of
those silly postcards we wrote
and the letters which we handed off
as though you were my knight in
shining armor but also my pony
express, and one that read
so poingnantly,
in all of your anger, “Really, I
think we both understand dilapidated
in the same way.”
So, I’m thinking about broken buildings,
again, this time the way it’s all just
fragments. the vaulting of the ceilings,
the trim, the staircase that
might as well lead to nowhere and
the bathrooms—violently beautiful
escapes.
Row after row after row
after row of empty courtroom chairs.
All that’s left are the beautiful
and romanticized fragments
of memory, but the function
left to die was much more complex.