03.02.12

Dear John Poem

All these long months and years of lying
here next to you like the lip on a shelf.

All that time. Straining to keep on the level,
or tipped up, to keep you pinned back.

God forbid you should fall off; smash-up
on our bedroom floor; leave splinters
between the click 'n' lock cracks.

There's nothing much to your cocked hip,
at rest, the hilt of a knife in half-twist.
Escaping some dream you peel away
but never quite make it as far as the edge.

I will miss, perhaps, the shared dent of our lives -
how, in cold weather, we would roll together.