The words we employ
the words we turn to use
promise only a future
fraught with lies
roped in disappointments
can we know by touch alone?
by the feelings that leak out sideways
this jam crusted
with resentment and regret
mortar made of songs
we never sing out loud
but rather hum nervously
with our knees and our fingers?
contemplate this rising
like the damp heat of exhalations
these illuminated promises we weave
pulling words out of our hair in sleep
our fingers wander
dreaming a keyboard
filled with other peoples’ stories
other peoples’ laughter
like street light
glancing off your windshield
like unclaimed tears
I fill you to overflowing
to the point at which
capacity gives out like a memory
reworked and patched
mended with quick stitches
and sewn-in forgetfulness
I could say I don’t remember
I could blame Jack Spicer’s birds, sure
but there’s a really simple way of distilling moments
let them drop rhythmically like forgotten intimacies
drop down their wind-saddened words
to stand awkwardly together
just across from us
like old buildings
pulled halfway down