at the big church in Harlem,
we talk about the terrible twos
and the almost-men who have stepped in.
One old, one new. Their names barely escape.

Women advance on us from the right.
Their faces are distorted,
colorless behind the rain.
They are every woman,
and we
are not.

We are reluctant to look them in the eye,
great ghosts of expectation,
and we are drowning in the blue,
floating upwards, no surface to greet us,
lulled deeper and deeper into the loop,
floating, advancing, heavy eyes
and uncertain place. Repeat.