We Lay Our Fear in a Wicker Basket
Too drunk, walking around
shook down gravity. Right hand aimless
as city noise, as night, left hand on wet brick, trying
to braid these fingers into graffiti, falling in
love with it. One more minute of eye contact away
from unbuckling our pants together
right here, on a 3am riproaring street but far away
enough, really just a few blocks south, between
a metal doorway and black, leaning trees. I slip
inside you, push almost patiently
and listen to the sounds you make,
your hands that reach back for my ass, pull me
in. I’m kissing your hair your neck, holding you up
against the rusted metal door. Neither of us
on the lookout, alert for trouble. What do we care
about? What do we know about each
other? I knew I walked by the same
site – the shrill monument masked by time
and emptiness – three years later in broad daylight,
palm to palm with another woman, one I love,
your face almost blurring me.
