Women sit, or move to and fro—some old, some young;
The young are beautiful—but the old are more beautiful than the young.

I thought you'd write about the other night
and you'd turn it into some beautiful dream so that our memories could start to seem a little more pure…
as pure as the moonlight pouring over our bodies,
as pure as your breath on my neck.

sometimes I wish I couldn't sleep at night,
so I'd be a little more like you, my heart would be a bit more blue and my love, a bit more pure…
but for some bitter-sweet reason I sleep peacefully until dawn, and I rise with a smile, awake with a yawn. our intertwined arms unfortunately fading, and it's heart-breaking, but my heart is stronger now, and colder, like a stone;
so I guess now I'm a little like you.

I reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue *******
and showed them to her and
asked "are these yours?"
and she looked and said,
"no, those belong to a dog."
she left after that and I haven't seen
her since. she's not at her place.
I keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
a book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
I keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
I drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
a confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
went.