By Terry Wright
And there you are, hulking, for there is no other word for it, you are
hulking in your bulk: your bulk hulks: you are a black
raincloud in that room, a bulbous, billowing storm front of black clouds
and of course the promise of green electric lightening.
And then what a sea rush of oceanic feelings in me; you are still there.
You haven’t changed! How far back this You goes!
We could still be friends. It could happen. We could make jokes about
thin-fingered poets with their facial hair and artfully
disheveled clothes. I see the cracks and the ways I could worm
into you until our friendship blurted out of a crack like a dirty city flower.
I could get in there; I see the crack. And at the same time
I recognize the frantic worm-turning I have to do in order to find a way
back to you, back to your side, to be sitting on that bed
next to you, hissing whispers into your little seasnail ear.