Images keep coming into my head
hovering in the stillness of their motion
sauntering before me
and retreating back again.

I keep wishing I hadn't told
that the newspaper hadn't printed it
that I hadn't told a soul.

maybe if I
had kept my mouth sealed
it wouldn't be so prominent
in my mind with such zeal.

but now all I can see
are the creases
un-ironed,
untouched
the creases like rivers
and irrigation systems
of withered lands
in ancient mesopotamia

his face won't disappear
and the tufts of hair on his chin
quiver before my reality lens
and I can't seem to get him
out of my head.

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