I woke up crying to the small of your
back. our parts did not
fit in space or time.
I had felt your hand holding mine
in the woods between the Pines
and Cherry Grove on Fire Island,
a strong, definite southern hold,
just minutes away from where Frank
O' Hara died. This is, after all, a city
of ghosts.
You are both a pre and post
ballerina. I imagine that your toes
point while you are napping, and
that you wouldn't mind the rot in
my mouth or how I always forget
the keys but remember when I get
to the door. Actually, it was someone
else who points his toes while napping.
Actually, it's the remembering that is
most important.
I want to, objectively speaking, hold
your hand longer, and objectively
speaking, rub against you
near the water and end
up with space aged children
who have super powers and who
remember the love they were born
from.
Sometimes I ramble and listen
to Tori Amos at loud volumes and
think about going to law school and
want to know why he always looked
straight to the corner of my eyes but
you just look straight at me with the
moons of the earth aligned.
