Hands and Jawline
the coffee is a wonder. and while the carpet is scratchy reaching under my shirt, across my thighs, the sun mentions you, searing my arm. “start over”. it is a magic trick, this wrapping of me, tight, dripping. “don’t try to come back in 5 years”. you know I have run out of things to give you. I have emptied my pockets, ran up the cards and now I am pouring another cup. a second for you, too. if only the memory were more accurate, my scene stills are corrupted. I can only feel your reach, and all the horrible things stand at the boundary of feeling and remembering. this is not a tragedy. “start over”.
Dear neighbor,
Have you seen me through my window? A masked man, hidden from the mist? Efforts of angels and sure-footed geese. My thank you is alive, a living gratitude. Be well. I do hope to see you again.
The blades of union turn over like rainswept blades of grass. Keep coming back. Keep sweeping it away. Like that time we watched us move, outside of us. Pants pulled up, teary-eyed. Running our hands over the spots raised and inflamed. We continue to sweep it away. And I cry for you. I cry for you.
