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Christians and Lions
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Some Trees
Hitting and missing, (mostly missing,)
I sit kissing where your face was
an hour before.
Both spell disaster
with some kind of far-off capital L.
But I'll never say it, dear.
Like tossing bread at the bird in the park;
it's not going to help anything anyway,
or make anything go faster.
And I've been sure that she'd be
this ghost that she'd never meet,
that I'd find her dragging dumb luck
down cold nor'easter streets.
But I've fallen into your arms
like a collapsed prizefighter,
and so far I'm crawling this year
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like it's going stale.
Braced to embrace, I'm all sick-grins in
(Break my jaw on a Goodnight, I slip grins in,)
the corner of the living room, back of the kitchen,
(the back of the hallway, the back of the kitchen,)
and tonight I'm wrapping myself in linens
like gauze and staunching thoughts
from running where they ought not to run.
I'm not lost,
I could slow it down, but I
Doubt I can--I can't stop.
(Well, gosh, it's hot.
I want a body where my head
is finally the top.)
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