Touch

I

Your fingers might have sought
mine but they didn’t
quite make it, couldn’t bear
to traverse the distance between
barely knowing each other’s names
and knowing all too well the unease
of slipping through hair
without getting entangled.


II

Let things unfold, and don’t complain
too much. Be still and listen
to the breathing of this heart,
sitting next to this other one.
You say, enfold; do not contain.


III

I remember nothing
I haven’t already forgotten
at least in part:
Your hand taking my hand,
slipping away.

Posted via email from miscellaneous momeng

Unstable equilibria

Not for us the languid falling
into place of pieces
that have lain comfortably
in wait, no, not for us
the rolling down a gentle hill.

No, the pendulum will not slow
or stop for us, nor the wheel
lie quietly on its side.

No, the waves will not cease
grinding our beaches into sand
or washing away
our footprints, our castles.

But no, though the bridge will sway
and not stay still, and though
the drop beneath will only deepen,
not for us the torpid sinking
into the oblivious river.

No, our feet will stop
only for that nervous peak,
that brush of lips and fingers
before a gasp and a misstep
send us hurtling back
to once more start again.

Posted via email from momeng's posterous