HAUNT / a conversation with bf skinner

b.f. skinner once said, 
“man remains what he has always been.”
how true those words.

the warm air
passed through the house
the doors open,
the windows open,
the patio lights
brassy and flickering
casting copper shadows
on the low branches
of the chestnut tree
in the backyard.

the lawn passed into the dark
the grass swallowed up
by black veils
hanging past the nutgrass
and sedge;
we throw cigarette ends
into the gloom
glowing arcs traced
lazily 
spinning away.

“i suppose, in all those notes
they were transcribing
accidents, a finger on a string
placed by accident,”

the sounds of blues
coming from the radio
in the house.

“you know like where he was
just jamming along, and brushed
something.”

a pause, he breathes,
exhales, breathes again.

“i mean its not like
anyone could ever do that,
you know, on purpose.”

i agree on principle,
its not like i would know
if this was true or not.
no way of knowing 
of discovering
of intuiting
if what he is claiming is true.
vagueries and dubious allegations
are something of a thing
with him
i try not to be too interested
or too casual.

cause the world turns
on a small axis
a pinpoint really,
and if i add a wobble
because i question
his logic
i could send us spinning
into the fiery sun.

i’m that way now
twenty seven years later
i’ll always be
what i always was,
but i’m more comfortable with that now.

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