Rubbish

You write words and they disappear somewhere between 7th avenue and 5th. Drown the rest of it with red wine and stories that mean nothing, after the fact. But you attempt to laugh in all the right places and ignore the images that trickle through your mind. You tell her how the ground dropped from beneath you, but there isn't much to say anymore. It's not long ago, but it feels like a whole other life.

He disappears from the radar.

You do not know how to keep the pulses
from scanning the great dark
beyond.