Frances Ha

Tomorrow is today crystallized,
or was yesterday a metaphor–
when the pushbutton of technology
pushed our undateable drives?

When were you my same person
even as your glasses saw different
cities, different men — would
I still be abroad and lie?

An artisan’s loaf of new york
when our 20s weren’t yet rumpled
and we didn’t realize that adults
pause a lot between decisions.

An artist’s stroke of tribeca’s
misfoot, afoot ballerinas, crashing
and asking and fucking without a leafy
ciao that fell into autumn’s au revoir.

Frances lives in apartments, she sleeps
there, sometimes in dorms, and she
dreams of a humorous IM
that will bring to this place, afar.

Projectors mounted in a society of
some-friends showcase a language, an
argot, runs to ATMs, and a gender equality
that we constructed, because, rien n’est far.

Had we known that our sliver of
boisterous youth would disappear round
the chinatown bend, would we have
sworn, as sisters do, to depart?

frances ha_mehtacritic

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