a query where our arms met slightly at the wrist

wait

Go long you say while we lay in bed. Begging, in some sense. Things like our bed have hair— rolled into your fingers into a ball. We are classic. In some sense, naked. A bowl of fruit on the floor, torn tickets I jot somethings on, We listen to Dylan. Claudia’s pink jaw gleams, she …

grace

Half a year ago, I had a short conversation about grace. We were discussing a poem I had written—a poem he thought had promise. It was an old poem—a lilac-crusted slide—and I hated it. So now my cat’s darting in and out of the door and I can’t get the conversation out of my head. …

unexpected

So I’m just sitting here at 7 in the morning thinking about how poorly we treated each other. But no, it’s not that simple. I’ll simply say I found your sweater in my closet today. I keep the most unexpected things lying around. So today it’s you and this cottony thing and tomorrow, I don’t …

Recording

Do you remember recording? That Sunday, it was so fucking hot, but we recorded anyway, tapping the microphone, check, check. So I bought ice cream like you wanted. Hauled ice cream up the hot third floor and dug two spoons in it. We ate from the same cup, and the sun—we wanted it in the …

Silence

So I’m thinking about silence these days. Silence like standing in front of a door. Silence like something cold. Like having your mouth cut from your face. Like writing, maybe, if the writing doesn’t work. “Shut up” “No you shut up” When we’re fighting, I say a lot of things that aren’t true. It’s my …