Other People’s Reunions

Skin-knowledges, most desperate kind, the

Shudders, like wings, too close to the bone


With skills, a wordsmith, lifting drink to

Mouth, the singe of heart-burn is real, its


Shoes mark dirt, leave annotations—

A craving, the condition now advanced to


Feet under table…tongues snaking teeth,

Left to their own devices, words are born.


At least the scars are honest,

They kiss the backs of hands,


Dragging idioms across lots—

A false sense of brevity pour—


A wish: she should see the shape I’m in,

Ignore all others, the newest friends, learn


Nothing replaces the time I’ve needed, nor

The time I’ve put in; it can’t be re-given.


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