I have no idea how long you’ve been standing behind me,
running your hands through my hair.
Awake I’m hunched over my chair, writing or reading.
To count the number of promises hung on my wall:
Shakespeare’s plays, from All’s Well That Ends Well to The
Comedy of Errors.
Beethoven’s symphonies, all nine numbered.
Three fantasy novels from a druggie.
Robert Frost.
The story of Odysseus in Ireland, 1904. How the West was Saved by Ireland.
Warm, bright, and balanced guitar strings.
A garbage bag filled with dusty laundry.
If when I turn around your face has followed your body
to this place, will you betray me and release my hold?
July 2
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