Aug 252011

Our dancelike wishes haven't made us nimble
but rather like a cloth anchor
have us drag and dawdle
until the rhythm of waiting is familiar.

A stopped clock is twice right
but lacks the feral finesse
of a kidder's remark remarking a remark
--the sometimes lightning of a laugh....

How had desire left us
in a slippery tangle on our hill,
the moon our only watchman
making faces in a pool?

How had we missed the train
whose tracks we'd followed to every station,
our fingers tracing the cracks in the map,
occasionally in the same groove?

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