power

You said my name the other day—

not addressing me, of course, but in reference to

someone or something else—

but I heard it, through a circus of noises.

It jarred me and it pleased me, hearing the image of

your lips and tongue and teeth measuring out the vowels and consonants

Into three heaping syllables that equal me.

I say your name, too, sometimes.

Never near you—

where you could hear it and think on

the intimacy of your name residing in my brain and 
slipping out and off my tongue—

but quietly and 
only when I am alone.

Maybe someday, I will find out what our names sound like

together.

clockwork

Green sunlight falls in a stretched-out grid on the floor:

the blooming of a new summer, and 
it was in the dying days of last summer

that you happened.

Across the ocean, perhaps your world is blushing green, too, but I imagine

that the pink-white teardrop blossoms fall not to sidewalks, but to rivers,

in a carpet cleaved by sunburnt punts.

I used to measure out the never-narrowing space--
between there and here--
by the intervals on my wristwatch.

A moment ago, I discovered that I am too used to sidewalks

to remember how many tablespoonfuls of time stretch between us.

Here my back is to you, and the sun is falling.

I know, at least, that it has already fallen where you are

and this might make me feel better.

But I’m not sure if it does or not.

misplaced

I dreamt of cobblestones and woke up with a sore neck.

These days, I am constantly waking to find myself

assaulted by grating inconveniences.

           

            The desk is too low, or else my chair too high,

            for me to cross one leg over another.

            The handle on my hot teacup is too small

            for three fingers, and too large for two.

            And seatbelts are always ignoring my shoulder

            to chafe at my neck.

Here it is: I no longer fit in the life that was mine.

I am conscious of my own breathing

and now the breathing is drudgery.