The Pull

If I said to you
that when I come
in my own hand
I am coming in your hand,
all the miles
between us
reduced to that, that
insistent pull,
what would you say in
return? That the
way it happens it happens
every day.
You wake up,
it’s there, the impossible
fervor, the
tension underneath
your clothes.
If I tell you that I fall
asleep with
a picture of you in
my head, a picture
you sent me,
what else could you say?
That there’s heat
along the highway,
that there’s
a way, a simple way,
that you can
bend over me
as I bend over you,
like a suspension bridge,
like the arc
of heat after rain, the
regular, insistent, human thing.


Racing

Sleepless like the banks
of the river, I walk
the thin line between what
I wanted and what
the night designs. I am
that which is left over
after the nerves short-circuit,
after the eyes are shot
at dawn, the shackles of the
sheets, reopened, like
my racing heart, a hart in
the wake of a deadly tortoise.