for John Fogelman

There are some things we just don't talk about--
Not even in the morning, when we're waking,
When your calloused fingers tentatively walk
The slope of my waist:
                                How love's a rust-worn boat,
Abandoned at the dock--and who could doubt
Waves lick their teeth, eyeing its hull? We're taking
Our wreckage as a ( Read more... )