How nice it would be if all hamartias
were pricks in our heels,
little tremors that warned us before pins and needles,
and the inevitable stomping.
The sensation not unlike just before crying:
the numbness before all the feeling rushes back.
How nice it would be if our visions of each other
weren’t skewed and frayed and
changed. It was like my whole world filtered
through a telescope when I knew you,
all I needed was to look your way to
think, yes, everything else is far
How nice it would be to spend a day
as one of the tulips in the garden,
yellow throats open to swallow the sky.
Hunger makes their bulbs bend up,
desperate, bright, and aching.
Time stretches its tired muscles.
It is a fearful creature,
I don’t look it in the eyes.
Everything will be fine,
I say. Clenched knuckles tap on wood
nearby. Only after do I realize the fingers