Turning the nose up;
We will not love. Not loving
As in hand holding, being tended;
None of the clutch and need of
Youthful lust and props.

You scratch me, there,
Right beneath my
Dark eye. I face away from you and
Strut. We
Toss items we care nothing of
About the apartment, making
Hurricanes of
Future-lost-stuff. I don’t claim to know you.
You gamble with hard glares.
We give acknowledgment
In twitches. Paw at memories. Sleep in stairwells.

When not ignoring,
We are asking for dinner,
Play, attention
—None of that. We decide
Not to bother with trivialities.
We take our time. Dogs ask us
About our wealth and entertainment;
We wonder about their sanities,
And lick our wounds
With delight.

Healing one another
Is not our jobs. We do what is ours to do
And leave it.
When sharpening
Our intellects, we use
Each other, and mark the backs
Of our countenances with sigils of
Old magic. Your’s and mine’s spirits
Are alive and well.

We love one another;
But, only a little.
I make games and riddles; you pretend not to care.
We dance like shadows,
Twisting into shapes
Unbelieved.
Making off with bodies,
The bones of small things
Pile up in the kitchen, and clatter and roll.

I am most pleased
When our figures are pressed;
Writhing as long ghosts
In the grey window. That
And the night. That
And the night and the
Honey on my sandpaper kiss, the smell of
Cold rain.

First published on Poet’s Corner, May 4, 2016