the coasting words that float past
the world which only hints at repose:
you look sleepily forward, as though underneath
the symetric clicking which keeps us plodding along
tearing through memories, shearing away hopes
those things we would never forget, but which remain untouched
because of softly dappling streaks
of well-shampooed hair
what is regret if we can’t feel it?
and where will the righteous die?
in dreams we may never wake from –
where time has stopped without being so polite
as to leave drops of dew behind
breathing now slightly more labored –
considering whether anne sexton knows yet now
and why decision has in its reptilian hands
a threatening blade –
a snarling cudgel –
to lie here at night
and hope i could watch you breathe
and hold you in our sacred position.
but what good is hope without action?
what good is decision without forethought?
what good are we by ourselves?
nonetheless we are the glance of a stranger in the car of a foreign subway,
but i remember the glance all too vividly.