by Michael King

what is there to say
here, now,
the road behind us
littered with
crumpled up notions
of who we could be
in each other’s
best light

i type, backspace,
type again, and pause,
stammering fingertips,
clumsy now in my knowing
you, what is there to
say, now, about all that

and there is rhythm,
i wonder if you feel it,
the song of a muscle
long left unused, remember
this tempo, dancing
for the makeshift
moment, do you

time falling over us,
ominous blanket, crossed
out calendar days
stretching apart between
us, scar tissue bleeding dry
the soil underfoot

i know better now
than to believe my words
can convince fragments back
together, know better
yet i still try to tell you
something beautiful,
revolutionary, handprint
on your sternum, i was here