They will eventually fit together
the lonely pieces
into a whole map.
Being smarter, being the future,
being devoted to their work they
will consult available experts and
reach a consensus.
They will eventually figure us out.
This is my left hand waving to strangers,
my right hand touching your cheek.
Don’t tell me
you were expecting red-ruby slippers.
These are my eyes.
Look at them and keep one
if you need.
But never say I didn’t offer
to go blind
at the first sign of surrender.
Your favorite love-disaster metaphor
is: ripping the heart out. Violence.
I’ve been impressed by this.
Your are easy with absence or
never quite motionless or
never caught waiting with your face exposed.
These are just samples,
Without a fist we circle each other.
we avoid the throat.
The path worn in the grass is our witness,
explaining each incomplete moment.
This is how they will find us.
The only mistake they will make
is in naming our reason.