Friday, January 16, 2009


You lean well.
I like the stretch of your long arms
And the slant of your shoulders as you lean--
Up against a car door,
Across the dark wood of a bar,
Over an expanse of warm, flushed skin.
We began in conversation,
Accidental and unplanned.
You expounded upon the development of noise rock,
The link between politics and art.
I talked to you about kairos.
You argued with me,
And I liked that you argued with me.
Sometimes, it seems, people are not so eager to engage.
But you, leaning like lightning,
Got angry with me,
Detailing the limits of education
And questioning the value of certain long-held truths.

I did not notice, at first,
That I had begun to lean like you.
That I was eager (more than eager) to practice
Such shoulders-taut positions.
I did not notice how much ground I had given.
I forgot my distance,
My diplomacy face,
And I fell into those long arms,
Seduced by ambling arguments and
Languid laughter.

This sentence is false.
I knew it all along.

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