Meeting again, like this at a beat, 
            to say the least is unexpected.

We're tripping over ourselves 
            to catch up. We look the same,

our shared lack of embarrassment 
            equates to a kind of twin-ship.

Only your height effects a separation. 
            Our imperfect Janus-head turned

from the fortress' gates establishes
            as fact our resistance to attack.

Not having warred for the best part 
            of a decade we've lost the facility

to war. The only gun in our arsenal 
            an unerring sense of fashion. How

is it possible we have dressed for 
            the occasion? The plaid rhetoric

of my suit, the faux stance of your
            designer fatigues, even my glasses

tinted rose pink, seem to say peace. How 
            is it possible, possums gripping the lip

of  a bin's smacked gob, pulling from 
            detritus the composed core of an apple?

We ask the easy questions first: work, 
            study, each ascended path achieving
 
the same kudos lit plain. Tourists lag
            small offerings in hand. We cannot

be coerced, our branches teeming. 
            Am I still writing poetry? The moon

benignly distilling itself; love no longer
            howls. And you off to another country

- for the first time! Shadows emerge
            but they are not ours, we maintain

a distance, whispering, yes I still write
             poetry. Our talk indiscreet here

everything but sex, and incidentally
            that's how it began. Two days later

recalling our meeting to a friend
            whose name means rock, I propose

 in the house I live in but do not 
            own, a home established in the fact

physicality of a poem (our story 
            carved deep into the face of it).
  
Search the pantry for sugar, milk 
            clouds for inconsistencies, conjoin

words like meaning, like mania: 
            meania in my hands, my haste

and lean into her approval - the fake 
            fire that keeps me alive in this cold

town. We talk and the flame stays 
            or goes necessarily. Love no longer

howls  yes I'm still writing  poetry.
            As we exit the garden (you toward

the flow of traffic, me, a stopped 
            fountain) she turns, neither toward

nor away, but to something 
            more telling, and says instead

that her child has crossed her first 
            major intersection today, alone.