A contemporary poem about what holds between us, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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Not promise. Not history. Not the photograph. Something quieter holds: the pause before either of us leaves, the chair pulled out without asking, the message that says home safely. Call it gravity if you need a name. I know it by the way it stays.
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A thing without a practical name resists ownership and remains open to a less instrumental way of seeing.
A contemporary poem about the way the body misreads, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
A contemporary poem about two things stay down, using a concrete image system, a pressured turn and a restrained open ending.
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