of all the ways we hurt one another
talking is the peak.
I attempt a sermon.
You attempt an apology.
I am a martyr, thirty-dollar
ravioli. You are the awning
of the restaurant, deep green
park at dusk, all inviting darkness.
Of all the things I remember:
unmistakable stink of ginkgo berries.
In fall beneath their yellow canopy
and the shadow of the monument
I spied a wasp nest. You kissed me.
Come night the alien lights
of the hospital drift across the table.
From our pockets our phones ping.
You are handsome and remote.
I am bereft. I am laughing. What’s better
of all the things that go together
than pain and pleasure?
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