We may have been alone together
flying over the coast where we both couldn’t stay.
The gentleman in the novel came into your bed;
one day, without warning, you felt like him too.
Drawing the shades up, by the door with your hair wet.
When we met, you kept me up saying very few things.
As all else, and dressed wisely, we fled our flawed forms.
Are you surprised then that anyone’s staying together? Surprise.
How surprising it turns out to be.
The three of us at twenty or close to the same age.
And no one wore a jacket wherever we went,
like no one wanted love for more than a day.
The boy I buy gin from says you’re next at just the right moment.
I pay him and slip into touching his hands.
In Bastille—on Sunset—late and blurry in Dolores Park.
What does time have to do with us there?