HOME
ABOUT
SUBMIT
READ
More
Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.
am I the hero, seeking,
tracing a path to some
dark, unknown center,
both hopeful and afraid?
Good grief it's so obvious
I see the quivering leaves
and I remember you, feather-light fingers
brushing across my skin
There are ghosts of us dancing:
under a railway arch,
in a graveyard in France,
in a vineyard in Nebraska,
i slip my hand into your pocket when we walk side
by sidewalk—only half for warmth—you say
you imagine us december, in the mountains—i say,
what poem today?—you wrap your warmth careful
the things that we conceal
beneath covers, within safes
secret chambers, behind locked
lips and closed doors, the layers
what happened to that book—
that one which we both loved,
desperately, one summer,
stealing it from one another
_edited.jpg){kind=small}