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a poem for pulse by Jameson Fitzpatrick

Opposite him at this table again and through the windows the city glittering, surreal as a scale model,

the city in miniature — only it moves in a real way, because it is real. One of the windows is open, some construction down on the street

drones like a distant vacuum. It’s warm for January. Still, his apartment has that dreamlike quality

of feeling like home though I know it’s not. Not mine anymore — but how many people get to visit the past without hurting anything?

To come back and drink the same coffee from the same never-quite-clean cup?

"Morning Scene", Jameson Fitzpatrick

see / spite is so much easier than love, heavy but I can hold it.

Jameson Fitzpatrick, from “Resignation”

by Jameson Fitzpatrick

JAMESON FITZPATRICK

I found it was better,

if I could not be no one,

to be someone. Small, but

particular. Specified, which was

an apprenticeship for special.

Cold, another word for cool.

Jameson Fitzpatrick, from Scintilla, Star, 2018

Jameson Fitzpatrick, Tenderness

When you go, take my longing with you. I have no use for it now.

Jameson Fitzpatrick, from “From a Friend,” published in The Believer

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