Seventy-four.

Let's discuss.
Say that I am unsettled. Say,
that everything I tell you
from this point on
is either a joke, a lie,
or an Absolute Truth.

Let's say
socks are falling out of the sky,
the river is filled with foxes,
and the lines on the map
are no longer lines or dots
or anything recognizable.

Say that we (I) have lost sight
of The Point. I can't even blame
the winter.

The fracturing never fails.
It's getting scared and foolish,
like crying when the tide
goes out, forgetting
that it will come back. At least

there is happiness sometimes.

I try to change the story,
over and over and over and --
well, you know.
By now, I have written prayers
over every inch of skin.
I walk home through the snow
and lose all of the hours
afterward.

Then, there is pink
blushing across the ceiling,
the color missing from my face
asking, When is the last time
you dreamed of a place like this?

We have now seen every season
together, and he still hasn't said
he loves me. As obvious as a slap,
the needle absent from the compass,
the hole in the wall above the bed --
an explanation isn't necessary.

There are worse things,
there are always worse things,
yet I'm restless in the warmth
of my own room.

Sometimes our favorite word
is the opposite of what we want.

Seventy-three.

The best part of my day
should not be the brief seconds
in which
I note the rhythm of my shoes on brick
while walking underneath white lights
on my way
to your house.

003.