To Ink

It’s 8pm & she & I are dusk
again lost, fuzzed – a lush, & me near-drunk –
just us, just as the popcorn air & sunk-
en August sun against us drills & clasps
my wind-burred fingers, turns their subtle task
from rolling fags, from gestures, to ink.
Were I to write her some words, some small chunk
of what I’ll call the heart, what harm? What risk?

. . .

The words at hand now handed, now I stand
indoors, in fear, yet pleased with what I planned.
Now I can barely speak to order drinks.
As time ticks slow, I sink as sunlight sinks.
Outside, the heaters start to glow & warm
her, reading. I mistake the light for dawn.


(One of three poems published in Haque magazine.)