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.

Or don’t.

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,

hairline fractures.


Without a fist we circle each other.

Famously non-combative

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.

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