The Fifth

On most days

I was content to be silent,

the observer,

as if it might be possible

to play the keeper of time,

capturing small particles of delicate exchanges

in a glass jar filled with the light of mothy memory.



At the edge of the open flame of the last days of caring,

the color of your lips came together,

your remarks clipped,

about needing something soft from me again,



the words I never noticed are unhinged,

fish bones in my throat

until they tumble

and crash into dozens of shards,

needles of glass exploding on impact.



My hand rocketed to cover

the damage done

and I could not take back all the ways

each syllable stood naked with meaning

like sour milk dreaming.

curdled abruptly

between us.

There was no way to ignore lump of truth

that could have been love

had I kept my mind in the darkness

waiting for the moment of recognition

to pass.

Hunger

It creeps up on me
this emptied lack of life,
nourishment of the morning and midday
gone.

It wasn't much to start with
and now my belly is empty,
alone and groaning through a long night
like a tired old dog waiting
for anyone to come home.

My pockets are empty.
My head has forgotten
the last time I whistled.
My heart hits these ribs
like a prisoner clanging
the last tin cup
that was ever
made.