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

and unimportant.


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

aren’t mine.

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