holding the distance between

the fingers that moved over white

matched each other’s end

notes rose from graphite shadows:

his, held in his hand

wrapped in a cloak of slicing page

he came out to pour

words about the far-off girl

echoing as if  she heard

within my round silver thought

his nightly voice spins

tale wretched, tone worn

my brow knit with him

 

my reticent mouth clasps cigarettes

wearing nothing’s mask

the need to hold his sweet-shorn head

something I will not ask

79th St Crosstown

     I looked out the window and the bus shelter was empty without his lone shoulders there blue-coated with the small red label and his eyes the way they looked quickly as we passed and I can’t really remember if we said “goodbye” to our friends getting on to cross over because I was looking right back and for a second I think we realized we were supposed to know each other somehow or maybe we just looked like someone else to the other passing by. . . anyway he leaned and I walked and hours later nobody was waiting.

the leaving

with his newness

roses bloom inside my head

in that blue, bone-colored thought

say the name as often as I can

to feel its meaning in my mouth

taste the action

of seeing his colored cheeks across chairs

 

thinking of green growth

and the stone I’ll live in

wondering if his eyes will stay

or disappear like runners round the bend

and I’ll have only those

images of skin and night

talking of being gone