I heard the subway pouring out of your mouth.
I thought, maybe, it was an early-morning thing, letting sleep
spill from your body onto the week-worn floor.
I didn’t ask you to reveal this to me, I cling to
the milky curtain that lets you stay a hanging portrait.
Now I see the clear lines I was resisting,
the straight shot towards the bustle of people leaving,
the procession of feet: everybody looks at them,
the last way to understand someone before a formal introduction.
But you have ripped yourself from my story with fish-mouthed indignity.
Feel this—the gentle lurch of the car stopping
and the rustle of legs rearranging themselves.
These rituals have the slow charm of a hypnotist,
weaving and strong. The proper thing is to follow them:
the doors agree, slide open heavily as if yawning.