“They don’t know/ we are becoming powerful./ Every time we kiss/ we confirm the new world coming.” -Essex Hemphill, ‘American Wedding’

You left the poinsettia I (stole) got

for you in the Rotunda, or maybe

the breezeway,

like we leave straw wrappers coiled on the counter.

Seasonably gray clouds foreshadow

our thick dots on window panes.

We are heavy drops

rolled. Puddles comfort

cracks in these cobblestone paths

as we walk further away from

those red silk petals in shadows

clumped like sunken hearts.

As we pass through a green door

friends greets us, and you say “eyes

are the windows on the house.”

But in the house,

on the house you don’t see through

greens housing my worry

as tea evaporates you into rain.

Now eyes are made for recanting chemical

trails, rainbows that run from street

lamps and headlights.

What you don’t know is

ears are walls,

they carefully distinguish heart-felt apologies

from whispers in the spouts of a fountain.



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