Like a glass of water held by an uncertain hand

Like a glass of water held by an uncertain hand
you contained it

that evening as we walked
along the lake and then among the giants
you were quieter.

Your gait was heavy with- perhaps regret, or
exhaustion from the labor of decision

I heard only the sounds of waves,
the pulse of the city, and the language
of your body muttering to itself,

"I must. I will."

When we sat under the terribly cheerful
white fluorescent light,
Hands folded on an inappropriately
bright orange table

you finally revealed it
with a strength I had felt each time
you'd touched me.

I held on to the all the details
in those sad moments;

Black coffee in a cup
Your hand on a napkin, and outside,
Through the windows, darkness.

You read between the lines

You read between the lines
or around them

without a care without
glancing at the clock, you get up
and go.

Words become sounds
no one will hear,
on these brightly lit streets.

You stop to write
on a dusty windowpane with a finger
and walk on

The air shudders behind you

but when you turn, you see only
your shadow on a red brick wall.

I know you are the one

I know you are the one
because it was written on your palms

in ink which left imprints on
my body last night

and because your kisses were like
two red rose petals softly

caressing my skin, softly speaking
telling me what I never knew;

Desire is a need
over which our bodies have control.

Small green apples, or pears
your two eyes wet with something
like love or happiness,

but real happiness

because we do not need
anyone else for that

not even each other.

In the soft light of the streetlamp

In the soft light of the streetlamp
which holds a magic it has retained since
the first night

when in that amber light
I beheld your face for
the first time

I stand where no one knows me by name,
and no one desires to know me.

Memories are carried into the darkness

by the smoke of the cigarette that tilts
between my fingers at a 90° angle of elegant mathematics.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero,

but it will never be so cold
or cold enough

to keep me from traveling to that place,
where you’ll never again wait for me

under the soft light.

OR

On my corner
the amber of light
from the streetlamp

solid as desire:
the first night I saw you
under it.

I stand beneath the concrete sky—
no one desires to know me there.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero:

new thoughts carried into the light
by the smoke from the cigarette that tilts

between my fingers at a 90-degree angle:
nothing is so elegant as its mathematics.

Light travels
the speed of desire
to the corner

where you’ll
never again wait for me
in its soft amber tent.