I stand on the bridge in Henley St & rehearse thewords.Back home, I take your hands in mine,
comb the sadness that has rubbed off you, mine.Twilight, torn, dirty twinkling.
I sit close to you on the bed, your naked bodyin the room’s crescent glow, a promise.
I say: what in the world have I done to deserve you?I pick the tablets off my tongue & lay it at our feet.
I have broken all the commandments. I havewalkedinto rooms searching the remnants of my vows.
When the moon slouches outside our windowlike a camel at the edge of Sahara, I hear your face.
I see your voice. I push against the air between us,its ghosts heavy with our breaths. I do not know
how to be a good man,…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2025