Friday, February 17, 2012


You confessed
You were excited
To what I can become.
Courtesy, of course,
Or something kinder,
Told me, I do too,
For you. For us,
This was just
Another shot in space,
As minute as electron
Emitted from solids,
Metals, like this bus
That I would not want
To go anywhere but here,
Staying put in the now.
Outside, the trees
Whizzed by, resisting
Horizon’s gravity.
It is true then; not everything
Could hold on to anything.
You had the words
Of an old wise man.
You had the look of one.
But only more refined,
Only more unintentionally
Energetic, youngish.
I listened closely,
Closer, to every tremble
In your voice, the pauses
Made from every bump on the road
A clever skip in a grand concerto.
I expected more brilliance
As cosmic as the depths
Of dark matter from you,
Expanding alien knowledge.
But what I got was a flutter
Of wings, of likely possession,
Nonetheless expanding,
Like an age-old warmth
That sprang
From the brush
Of your knee
To mine.
And mine
To yours,

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