But really, all I want is to appreciate the moon tonight
and re-live familiar comforts
and exhale from the heights of summers passed
in similar states of heart.
Ashore, glancing from a distance at waves that came:
a jealous flip, a caught foot, a meddling cry, an anguished sigh, a freeing fling.
Why is her cheek so smooth?
I like her the most–
she seems to be the most angular and the most sincere–
but my cheek couldn’t have been that smooth, I couldn’t have turned out that way;
the road was never that smooth, and I never wanted it that way.
Convince me that I am the most beautiful anyway.
You have to look for the intricacies, those that those with taste pick up on,
but don’t write about this being the best day
when I’m half-living it in front of someone else’s house–
and you who the hell knows where.
I’ll destroy myself in so many bodily ways
just to preserve the extra-bodily ways of knowing,
but refuse to even be tickled by the sight of her in the room, late,
or leaving the room, early.
Massive bag flung over her back and wiry legs walking to where–to where you are?