There is a symbolic “X” on your wrist

in red band-aids.

Your wrist is a slender pack of meat wrapped

in the brown paper skin of your arm.

Your arm is in a small clerk-printed photograph

that I am taping to a window.

Clouds that look like mud in the dark waters of the night sky

are sliding from the window to reveal a full moon.

Your image glows in its back light

and I

cannot decide

which is more haunting.


The poet never finds love because

the poet is always looking.


What was it that you said?


We are married to misery and

we should only let it go.