"If I had blamed you, now I could forgive


you, but what made my cold hand, back in prox-

imity to your hair, your mouth, your mind,

want where it no way ought to be, defined

by where it was, and was and was until

the whole globed swelling liquefied and spilled

through one cheek’s nap, a syllable, a tear,

was never blame, whatever I wished it were.

You were the weather in my neighborhood.

You were the epic in the episode.

You were the year poised on the equinox.”

(Read poem)

11:24 am  •  24 September 2013