Friend-the face I wallow toward
through the scrimmage of shut faces.
Arms like towropes to haul me home, aide-
memoire, my lost childhood docks, a bottled ark
in harbor. Friend-I can't forget
how even the word contains an end.
We circle each other in a sacred bolero,
imagining strategems: postures and imposters.
Cold convictions keep us solo. I ahem
and hedge my affections. Who'll blow the first kiss,
land it like the lifeforces we feel,
tickling at each wrist? It should be easy
easy to take your hand, whisper down the distance
labeled hers or his: what I like about you is
