Is it platonic or plutonic? you ask, every time imprecise until I reply,
though really we are neither, how can we be,
our eyes half-closed, awake too long, poorly packed in tired skin,
improperly defined.
We lie on the porch, two lumpy cigarettes,
watching the ions of the air.
The snow is too slow for your patience, you say,
All other words plod off on peripatetic feet.
Each phrase floats face down,
silences pass like quicksilver suns.
Are we made of shadows or fire? Magma or perfection?
Really we are neither, here
on the penumbra of perception it is so late, here
your hand is on my sleeve.
I am cursed by your propinquity,
whatever that means.
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