She was with me, in her
Black hose and skirt, her hair like a copper plate reflecting plums,
Elegantly elven
Sharplipped temptation.

And still I saw you standing like a girl with a puppy far too big
In a straight slip dress, summery
Pixen waif tanglehair
Cliff jump inspiration.

Both sets of brown eyes magnetic—
Hers like tea, pools, liquid encapsulated;
Yours shining, approaching black with lure.

Stomping up the stairwell announces me to no one over Meadow Street's traffic, though
I could creep and slink down Eastern and still my presence be known through scent and howl.

I saw you first on Meadow, saw you last on Eastern.
"Irony" was the simple way you put it, but I noticed the numbers
On your porch exactly echoed her new door.

These places echo more than numbers; are traded;
Both make me sneeze, dog hair and the memory of a cat's—
Here you find clan, completion, cronies;
Her view might span isolation, phonies
Ruin what cities offer. And where you've cut

Tanglehair,

Brought the traffic with you through livingroom and studio,
She has stolen your summery slip dress, stretched
It gold across the walls to blot out siren howl, smoke.

You coil her copper hair into rings, forge
Chains you only hope to cut. She uses silence to sharpen

Lips that glisten.

poems: alphabetical || chronological
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ChaoSpirals