Twos


I live my life in twos:
two pairs of hands, of two minds,

too many imagined complications.
A tired two-step. 

At two in the morning,
solving the world’s problems,

reaching new lows in communication,
too drained to give up on each other. 

Too, too, tootsie don’t cry…
my parents lived in couplets, too— 

to be or not to stay together.
Pairs of working hands, double hearts.





Two Greeks Arguing about Something or Other
Inspired by James Pappas’ Composition Relative to Musical Construction #3, 1991

​
The effects of light on the world
can never be measured in simple strokes:

I picture a couple shuffling across the steps
of the Parthenon in their light blue caps,

strain to make out what they’re saying.
It’s clear they’re arguing, heat pouring out

of them like the smoke of ancient furnaces. 
Imaginary music rises from the Theatre of Dionysus,

lightening the mood for a moment, then fading 
into a background score. This couple 

could have been me, before poetry, and you, 
so long without intimacy. Balancing discomfort. 

She places something or other in his hand— 
a pearlish rebuke, a talisman that halts him.