This Happened

The glass in front of your eyes does nothing
to hide your smile. A keeper (your words).
A goalie? I asked. No, your first rebuff.
(Her hands are like butter)

As she spoke they spread, palms upturned -
showing the innocent bend in her finger -
I took them into me and she melted, like wax
in warmth.

The distance between us
is the space of two breaths
that burn the pink of our lips.
We cool it with a change of rules.

And this has never happened.
But now I guess it does.

An Old Poem With No Title

I was by no means cajoled, but induced quite quick,

into a half conscious split,

where reason and love and

envy and guilt

are all blanched and borderless.

Pictures in parks, misshaped clouds,

an empty scent - misjudgingly pointed out.

white lies then truths,

and an absent rachis which rearranged the brain

and all its functions.

I thought only of the flame,

and forgot about the light.