The Brownstone on 81st Street

There’s only light in the attic
of the brownstone on 81st street,
a gaunt building cloaked in ivy
whose leaves flap their waxy wings
in the wind;
it comes from the west,
bringing winter in slow, rolling gusts.

It’s a cutting cold, and I’m missing
the warmth of your hand in mine,
though I’m learning to find
a similar heat in my own pocket.

The city skyline darkens and
the street lamps alight.
It is night,
and I’m wondering where
all my days with you
have gone.


The Genius Of Us

I wanted you closer than bone,
To suck your marrow and replace it with my own;
Maybe then you’d crawl inside my hollows
To make your home.
Maybe then you’d feel the low, loving tug of loyalty,
Finally stop looking and start to see
The genius of us, the ease of our chemistry,
Distilled from years of sugar into a syrupy-sweet simplicity.

Do you remember it?

I don’t want anyone else to come closer,
For no one else comes close.

How strange it is to live without,
To crave moving forward but feel the doubt
Seep and steep as I stutter over the
Language of another body:
Clutch at a shoulder blade
More pronounced than yours ever was,
Kiss at a collarbone
Much wider than yours ever was,
Pull on a head of hair
Much thicker than yours ever was.

Do you remember it?
The genius of us?