I pretend that your poems and 
my poems go
slumming in disguise;
carrying on in dark doorways
of riverfront bars—
tipsy, telling secrets,
spilling out into the sweet-smelling
night,
libertines 
more in love 
than they were before.

You rewrite me.

I learn the hieroglyph for longing,
the derivative of sigh.
Ours is a softly spoken love

and I'm a breathless scribe.

break
n.  interruption, intermission
n.  an unexpected piece of good luck, happy chance
n.  a sudden dash, sprint
v.  what my heart did, shatter

indifference*
n*.  the feeling that I get from you that it doesn't really matter

This is how we love:
First with fire, then without.
Who was tending the embers?

The wrong thing
seduces the heart
into a quiet corner
and the right thing
kills it.

You obviously don't speak silence
or you would have heard me say

*Stay.

I'm not good for you.

I'm better at seduction 

than love; love is hard.

Evening swells and spills
across his back and farther.
I collect handfuls.

If an easy rain
would make the rocks slippery,
he would hold my hand.

There was no battle cry
or first shot fired.
The clip clip of doom's hooves
was far away

and I never felt its hot breath on my neck—
               I never felt its hot breath on my neck

You weren't my enemy.
I loved you
but he thump thump of love's drum
was far away

and I had killed you with an arrow sweetly fletched—
               *I had killed you with an arrow sweetly fletched.