first thing after breakfast, between math and   
gym, in the fifth hour of a moonless 
night, while somebody was locked in the 
bathroom, im richtigen Augenblick, 
between littoral and piedmont, down the 
cellarway, on a twelve-speed bike, during
the halftime show, while remarking 
outsides are roomier than insides

            Her hair’s fragrance is so sweet
            yet his liberty’s so dear;
            tonight he’ll kiss her feet—  
            tomorrow he’s not here.

deciding between snare or love, weighing 
a species of duty against a cunning 
trap, just after recess, according to 
plan, despite a blizzard, between Act Two 
and Act Three, dodging around the corner,
before even knowing what she was up to

thereafter there’s much dull placidity 
and olive inanity of backyard grass, 
gatherings of English sparrows, Sunday 
silences, private migraine moaning, 
unshared doubts and teleologies, 
a solitary and vacant domain.

            pull that taffy, stretch that gum
            until the gossamer thread
            severs in stillness like a
            couple who never should’ve wed.

before learning how full the world is of 
doorknobs, between white sheets that made their 
legs look tan, prior to becoming disillusioned 
with commodious salles de bain, while 
distinguishing phony from unfeigned, 
decades-old clouds cast shadows over 
static lawns and then blew off, bugged out. 

            Consolation is the pleasure of soothed pain.  
            They were sometimes one: a May night in the rain
            when they got drunk and laughed like they’d gone insane;
            when she crooked her finger saying, Do that again.
            Consolation is the pleasure of soothed pain.

Into dusk or dark, between dawn and 
forenoon, lassoed horse from 
makeshift corral, embezzler from cubicle, 
hog from sty, fledgling from nest into
a cheerless mist of possibility.