Leigh pushed me through the cellar door

and the cellar stank of roots and earth

floorboards creaked and marked our berth

the light bulb over head burned bare

She closed behind us the cellar door

and we buried our secrets there.

cellar-door is

the most beautiful

word we'll never again say

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He will never be your lover.
He is not really your friend.
He is a stranger to you
and to this town.

He is the penny
lying luck side down
in the crowded street.

Don't pick him up.
Just pass on by.

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We can slip on the threadbare soles
of our ancestors

and slip them off again, just as easy.

We are not
(despite the feeling
of the bit at our mouths,
the crop at our flanks)

horses.

These shoes are neither lucky,
nor nailed to our feet.

If I cut eyeholes

between these lines

I can wear these words

and you will never see me.