Wednesday, February 7, 2018


Some days,
I believe
in love

and in the truth
so much—that I can't resist

turning them into these
cheap little gift
shop knickknacks

and taking them with me
everywhere I go—

I carry them both
around in my pocket,
the words feel smooth

like tumbler-polished pastel
talisman rocks.

When I'm feeling fidgety, I
can reach in to fondle,
click and rub them together,

shuffle and rearrange their orientations
to each other in the dark

and it relaxes me;
while I'm pumping gas, waiting
in line at the bank,

debating calling, dialing, pacing—
hoping you don't pick up.

Other days, though, it's heavier. Love
feels like
just another goal,

and the truth gets so thick-
ly narcissistic, that I think

it's likely that all of my depth
has just fallen out of my pocket
though the holes made by hope,

and if I'm not careful, all my
sincerity'll go next.