Wednesday, June 16, 2021


Perhaps tenderness 
is less of a kiss 

than a small buzz 
on the skin,
that momentary itch 

which displaces 
our heretofore 
uniform composure 

in a distinctively  
pleasurable way.


Perhaps, the heat
we encounter

when some 
little kindness
from our recent past 

rubs up against 
some rough patch
in our future 

is the same kind 
of friction we mean

when we try 
to speak about 
loving each other. 


Perhaps peace 
isn't rest;
it's a reflex 

when life cleaves,
leaving spaces

it's no coincidence 
that our sheaves 
of opinions, 

persuasions, beliefs
all seem to shrivel 
like leaves

when we're finally 
at our most helpless
in sleep.