stabbing at honesty, unskillfully, with some sort of dinner knife for children

one day he'll come along

the sun has gone down but not yet the light.

i think in why's and ex's--that epic night
we talked on the porch where the bugs threw themselves
at the light,

that madly uncomfortable breakfast,
slathered in sour cream, stiff and white, men i didn't know

everywhere. i wasn't drunk but i said i had to go.
what i had to do, though, was walk in dark along the path
i'd trod red-hooded with that other wolf,
gathering strange red flowers and watering them.

still seeing you. your hair down and lips lined. your eyes
and voice. the shirt you gave me. things i never had and
knew i'd never have, things i told myself i didn't want and didn't.
but wanted to want them. wanted you to want them.
williams' escaping rose: i twirled the stem.


memory, a leaf:
crush it and smell the deep scent
of autumnal nights.