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Epilogue

The restaurant turns
and you wish I looked nicer.

I just laid down and tried
to duck the smoke
because perfection was
a power outage on
a stormless afternoon
with clouds. Quiet.

How dare you read this
tonight.

I know the glass
is gathering all the dust
we must have missed
but you have no right.

I thought we should
have a candle while we talked
but you're not talking.
"I found out that softness
isn't something you carve,"
you say. "It's a grand design
you sink in the aquarium and watch
leak away," I say,

while watching
your fault lets me
down, a fragile blur of soft
mixups. The end of your nose
used to mean something, a sign
that language submits.

I can hear it, the first time
we rode the subway together,
sideways, but no one saw.