Not tripping
under ladders, the girl
wears lips
on a t-shirt, men
block the entrance
to anywhere
she might want
to pass through
to escape hidden
meanings—but
there were none.
Not tripping
under ladders, the girl
wears lips
on a t-shirt, men
block the entrance
to anywhere
she might want
to pass through
to escape hidden
meanings—but
there were none.
Superstition and obsession
get married—will it
last, will it to last.
Three turns east,
the left hand leads.
To avoid loose
structure, she steps around
the porous stretches
of your concrete skin.
Call it superstition—don’t
step on the crack in any sidewalk.
She calls it the wise
way to construct
a commitment from you
in a faithless world. If
she believes you can
hold her up, will she believe
you will? Strike out
the ending and the sag
in the middle, she seeks
a taut you, abhors
the tremulous, falls asleep
to the vibrations rising
through the grate,
a compressed force
she would not dare deny.