Absolute

I wish I could say
that I am sometimes
the shrill rush of the ringing phone
and not always the
hollow-gut silence.

It's not always easy
to rearrange the furniture
in such a way
that no one is able to
face each other.

You are never free of violence.

Without Answer

We are a collection,
threadbare.
A body torn apart.

Without answer,
the question is unbuttoning
skinny jeans and layers of shirt.
The sound of running in place,
fingers in my mouth.

Delving, submariner,
until the room is coated
in quiet.

Slack

Me, mending and remending

individual links,

the silver thread

that so delicately laces between my fingers and yours.

You, in turning to make

some casual remark

an unconscious gesture.

Tiny metal raindrops

and slack in the line.