mine

i’m sorry for your unsleeping directions

to whom letters go shifting bright, insecure,

we’re telling ourselves heartsick ways sure

writing—unliving—our double youths

yours

your words usually hate their choking distractions

meanwhile, all the while, neglectful inquired

using unfolded pages in your own defense

deferred, inferred, forgetful as clementines

ours

ripe, sunrise-colored, bitter-sweeter than peach

i’ve held it and your introspection in the lines of my palms,

in the grooves of my prints, reprinting/repenting a

poem already grained in our elbows and knees.