No blue yet. It rained
while I slept. I should
be working but
I text you your name,
three times: You, You, You.
Perhaps you’ll come
over tonight. At my
desk I write: The day goes
gray as weathered wood.
It might rain again. When
you text me a picture
of yourself in front of
a mirror, masturbating,
your face obscured by
your phone, the sun blinks
on. The sky smells
of wet wool. What
is that tree called, still
and silver? I should
know. And what were you
thinking of, bored or
stirred to some joy
or stupor, fixed
on your own image
in your phone in
that mirror that
held your belly’s burst
of shocked black hair?
What we have is small
and strange. But true.
I once thought: to be
in love: is to lose
face and accept it.
Isn’t every poem
for someone?
Why not you?