Thursday, March 14, 2013

After the Storm


I pee in public stalls
and write in the afternoons
at Starbucks,
the deliberate metallic tinkle
of my stream mixing with the chatter and clatter of spoons
and their strange makers, and the day
is day and hands are hands and I am well.

We Fell Too Soon



We fell too soon from strangers into friends.
The mystery of heart and bone and vein
unraveled into bits of rough, familiar play:

a hand clasped just a bit too tight,
scratchmarks on the wrist.

I hope I looked as lovely as you were
when I was whole, and fifty feet away,
but this must be the cost of coming close:

careful hair unraveled, fitful and unchaste,
and subtle hope become a blunt demand.