what sharp teeth may appreciate.
there’s the child who labored, figuring it all out.
maybe not so successfully.
there’s the man growing older every day.
he feels the unconditional heft of gravity.
imagine your life. afraid. and release.
imagine telling. all your truth.
imagine knowing. what’s the truth of that truth?
gather me in like driftwood. I am. the same.
put me on the shelf. souvenirs from the beach.
all bleached brown and scattered white.
a few grains of sand speaking in native tongue.
it’s because you’re near that I remember you.
your after-shower, exuberant, untamed hair.
early morning in town. it is all too beautiful to want
leaving. open eyes. past due, observe.
palms on my seated knees. my collar up but chill
breeze behind finds me anyway. some minutes,
minutes yet before sun comes out from a green leaf
I miss your book being in my hands this morning now.
sun is now on the right side of the bench.
I’m on the left. slowly. closer my way.
Oh, I need This, is said behind my right shoulder.
was it really behind? closer to me?
sun creeps astride my paper coffee cup.
now here. now me. except my knees.
despite the warm glance, I shiver once with the
change. the brightness of the moon.
you and you, and you, are in this poem right here.
you veer from thought to ink. don’t need names.
we align by height, near and far.
now to ask, Is the daylight sturdy in these hands?