Now that we have an alphabet
and leisure and the evening

is congealing into a plausible shape,
you can write the names of everyone

you love without contradiction
in webs of sugar

and no one would know.

Promises are pooling
round our ankles, greener,

they are pearling, born of needing
more to say.

Smoke and rapid water. O
                         but truth is an arena

where people get hurt.

(And on it goes.)

Used with the permission of the author.