17 (life unweaved)



You live on the other side of the world,

and somewhere between us, in the ocean,

me with my crutches and you with your curls,

and the green coffee house with big muffins,

and the fanciest restaurant in town

(that used fresh basil and canned tomatoes),

and you and me in sex till we drowned,

and running through the corn to scare the crows—

we stay there, still and always wise young fools.

Bruised, raw, scratched, bitten, and frayed at the sleeve.

You and me, together on the lambswool.

And even now, now, my chapped lips still bleed,

when I know … that we have lived lying, not we,

     and that we are still we, in life unweaved.



originally published in Column

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