I saw you
on the corner.
you are all
freckles
and fresh grass—I
wonder how far
they've spread.

Distracted by Carol
King on the radio,
I don’t have a car,
I am at ease on my feet
with a pen in
my grip, blue
ink on the
tip
of
my
tongue

and yours, your
lips are good
at drinking coffee,
kissing,
coffee kisses
are my favorite kind.

Still,
for the million-
millionth time
the abandonment
tastes sour, like
lemon drops and
sleeping alone. Always,
it leads to self-
destruction, such
a pain it’s more
painful than
failure
and rejection.

With soap I
smell your
resignation. Too
much weight in
the conclusion,
wounded in
anticipation, the
ache it moves in
waves and runs

in circles, you rush
to wash your hands
but you cannot
rinse me off. I’m
soaking through.