we never get
our lines crossed
they run parallel
in the same
places
in the wrong
times
circle back
turn a rut
into a track
& never tell him
too far away
the want
in all the
having, or how
i retreat to
the comfortable
strangeness of him
if he lets me
my placeholding
subconscious
& now's another
time to lie in my
well-worn
one-man chasm
next to his
on this bedrock
tabletop
close but no
closer
survey the
topography
fingertips trace
strata, find
how often he
wound
words
around
& over me
angry, hurt
longing, sincere
bitter
bittersweet
sweet
words while
i would lie
& talk to myself
with my eyes
closed
it's this blink
& blanch
at what could have
been written
on my skin but
is left in lines
& layers
i press lips to
long ago & all
i taste is old dirt
dry on my tongue
so i believe in
fall but not
autumn anymore
there are motors
in the ground
but all i've
ever done is hold
on to another
thing or sound
No comments:
Post a Comment