to Robert Plant circa 1971

it’s midnight – we are now
twenty-three,
if i lean just so out the window
your hand will
curve to the bare
small of my back
while the other will gently
tap the steering wheel,
all of this
just as the California dusk
takes a breathless gasp
at the sight of
night

then when
the smoke has cleared
and tea has surrendered
to breezes exploring their sheer
surface we’ll be
finding bare footing on
the cold metal rungs
of the fire escape
with nothing –  nothing
but to believe in
our immortality and to fill
blank seconds of
night

skin

HER

how can skin
lack in color so quickly
draining from a newborn pink
to ashen grey
how can skin
keep these insides
from exploding out
from the news of skin
lacking in pulse,
blood slowed to a pause
how your
skin
feels
nothing
like
how her skin feels now
your hands are rough
callused, vaguely
consoling
pulsing,

HIM

how she
grows so small before me
– oh
small fingers
so deathly still –
I need to solve it.
I need to fix it.
I reach out to grab her:
“it’s not your fault
it’s not your fault”
over again
stroking the thin
taut
skin of her hands.