A
Poem in the
Before Choice Disturbs collection
Asleep
I walk over as if
guided by ghosts.
Half Asleep
A diviner with a stick looking for
soft water.
For now we speak, we need to,
bartering
words
like at a market;
our lives produce stacked in neat round moments.
"
We do something dangerous when we talk." She says,
but I
forgive her.
This is her fourth drink.
Out of the bar and into a cab, our hands
find comfortable places, and the tension drains
Then, at her door, never thinking of going in,
I am pulled by unseen attractors.
Before I even step through her door,
before another glass of wine,
before I feel the cool sheets,
I notice a pressure.
The pressure I guessed and sensed all evening.
The pressure anticipated
falling onto her lips.