Behold, an eyelash troubled
by its own beating. Forgive
this nuisance—a man caught
between two brown diphthongs
and the hips of a slow tongue.
Before the light, there was enough
light. And after the light,
we were naked. Leaf atop leaf.
A turtle chewing through the branches
of a hyssop bush, the moon
disappearing into its mouth.
Somehow, I’ve wandered away
from our bed of stem and snail, wandered
from this town of small phone booths
and homing pigeons lost in the cold
belly coos of their lovers. What war
keeps me from saying Please, please
do not wash your hair tonight.
We are still trying to find each other.
Copyright © 2013 Roger Reeves
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.