Entry

Suppose you fought

and felt claws and
scratched an itch
that leaked blood.
He waved a heart-shaped
flag at half-mast.

You were quiet then.

More cozy nights,

a hot water bottle

on your toes. So what

then, when his

thin fingers on

your face woke
you up?

Draft 1: August 6th, 2011. 

Cold fingers

wash

two faces

carved

in coin.

I traced

chalk drawings

rain buckets

collecting

stems.

(I wrote this because it rained today. In the summer. Ugh, New York. This poem took me longer than I expected.)