It's in the hand—a wandering—
my eyes, the pockets
of your pants.
The imaginary café where I met him
burned down, taking our last glances.
Is he our grandfather,
writing lesbian love poems?
Of doors and red-eyed windows,
the senses before sight.
I became specific
in my body.
I had a laughter & for that
you had fir trees.
So the wire bird abandons writing.
I give up
my plastic mouse.
The apartment lobby choked with incense.
Tiger said why are you
so pretty. I have seen you in pearls
and laces. At night
kissing each part of your nothing.
Always I send what can only be called love.
Eating goat cheese & our friend's salad
we are frivolous as pronouns.