drunk outside the womb.
beneath the will-o’-the-wisp of a hazy chinatown train,
you, on bended knees, grabbed a rail
and with dutch courage proposed to me.
atoms bombarded, and for a transitory moment
i saw temporary symbols of our eventual decay.
but i swear, i almost said “i do” before the cascade.

in a station of the metro
the apparition of your face to the crowd;
vomit on your wet, black bow.
the grating wheels pounding. pounding on the tracks.

and we were never really lovers, just two marbles in the sand.
and this was never really a poem, just an open mason jar.
and i was never quite a writer, just the ocean’s shaking wrists.
and i had the body of a man, just the shoulders of a child,

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