A Wrong Turn

Words From A July Night's Conversation

“You do that!” You exclaim, your

smile less fragile than the

voice it frames.

“I just…” I reply, and turn

away to bear the moment.

We leave them hanging, these

rough-tailored phrases, their

meaning fluttering raggedly in

the evening’s damp breath.

Safer, we believe, to cut

short these words, trimming

their intent from our

careless conversations and

burying it deep in laughter

and the dim flicker of

the moment’s passing fancy.

But it isn’t so, Love, and

we reach forward through the

ticking seconds to grasp

the white-hot needles of

our thoughts,

determined to know their

scalding pain despite

ourselves.

Madly, we touch their heat

to tired eyes, clean and bright, and terrible,

And as our scales blister and

  weep,

we remember why we left

  them hanging,

these blind words,

these beggars’ thoughts,

Tattered tapestries of longing

  and other stories.