Your face is perfectly (still)
A contrast to the
Wrinkled, cowardly loose-leaf
Of your note. Hands
That once gesticulated like
Paper cranes now vanish
Magical
Into the dark, denim potholes
Of my borrowed jacket,
Fingers motionless in thought
Wondering what curious trash
I must have left there, for you.
Still we read each other
Like dictionaries, dull
And you can never meet my eyes.
But still (But soft!)
I hesitate to turn you over
To our dry expanse of epilogue
Anonymous between crude lines
Of acutely indifferent pain.
My fingers move inexpertly
Down the neck of your guitar
Plucking at some random chord,
Surely, no song of mine.
(You coward)
Your paper-crane hands
Once painted me a world
But really, now,
Don’t worry your pretty
Folded little head about a thing.