I’m not
very good at that,
you said—
but you preferred escape
to acting like you cared.
You quarantined my need /
yeah, I know
because You’re
not very good
at that, you
said.
I saw fear—as if tremors
from a heartfelt thank you
might scrub the silky softness
off your public face.
And be a mortgage. /
What’s this I hear—
bad luck ran your
your precious scow aground
and wrecked your game?
And you Send
for me? to salvage
your golden cargo? /
I’m not
very good at that, I say.
I’ll take the vicious sting
of your white-hot madness—
thanking Who?
for all I know
in the present moment/
God knows how one lover
bonds and the other doesn’t.
April 2002
