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
between—
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.
