The mistake is in meeting, that
whizzing center, collecting
interest young, that way
with fate and its carabiners,
but still, I promise
no secret paints me
nude. The length of my
forearm, this statute, supports
that window, our clicking exit.
Between us it’s always been
a different burn, a kinder
singeing, the sand grit
stick but smaller than that.
A puncture maybe, the one-point
widowstitch, a malocclusion,
sometimes an older word,
a tall-telling pass of time.
These lines of mine,
of demarcation,
you forgive, I forgo.
Issue