caught: between felt & faking.

for certain reasons as yet left       unexplained

by our respective, unsuspecting guardian angels:

we lay there;       post-coital cigarettes

poised & ready, yes---but,       temporarily held at bay; each

unaware that       each one of our twenty-something skins

had performed the forbidden & remained

under the other's thumb

for that       one instant longer       than could be conisdered

comfortable

in those more secular circumstances,       such as these . . .

& if only for that       shit-hot second, still

i think i can say

we must have both       lingered

under the same alluringy delusional

but

undeniably delicious misconception

that our trade in gaze,

in voice &

bodily fluids might actually amount to more;

that maybe---just maybe, for a change:       this can be real.

none of that pesky perpetual wondering whether that

fuzzy/warm & far-off look in his lazy eye is

more than just       the need to sleep-off

whatever's yet got to clear his system

to manifest him slightly less of a wreck

to the swiftly encroaching after noon-time light &

passersby . . .

no:

this one could be real;

if i wanted it to be.





as i tight-rope walk the last ten tenuous tip-toes

from your bed's bottom left-hand corner

to your

open window's right-hand sill,

bare, hard-wood floor on naked, thick-soled feet

equals (=)

slip, shuffle, caress.       slip/skid/shuffle;

full stop.         if only i knew you

well enough to let you

know me

well enough to read my mind so it could show you that

i can't help but to envision the expression on your face

when next i meet it---hovering

up out of a cheap cotton tee-shirt,

as ingenuine as a half-inflated yellow balloon

& almost       as ready

to pop.








written 5.2.99

• Chy Ryan Spain

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