December 4, 2011

Symphony No. 10

I finger seeds and think only of your pores
and a blade of grass on the back seat of a cab
becomes the one whisker
that you've missed shaving at two p.m. 
this afternoon.

(I want to tell you that) you smell like my grandfather
and that, while swallowing smiles in the back row of Avery Fischer
I wondered if all these harmonics and all of you
was simply maya,
illusion.

Later
towards the apartment door
with key in lock and eye by tree
I bit my tongue for esprit de l'escalier,
things I've lost the chance to say.