Two Days | Steve Klepetar
later I can hardly
remember your face, blurred
like a windshield sweating
in morning fog. It’s your skin
I feel on my fingertips as if I’d
stumbled through another door,
one with a handle of smooth
brass, scent of metal and salt
and rising heat. You were a
map of the world, each tattoo
emblazoned with color and light,
those red and green scars pointing
toward a horizon of waves.
Day dimmed to a single point, all
that mass pulling us in, squeezing
our nerves in a micro web
of connection, a greeting on our lips
and teeth, another way of taking
the long route home. All that music
running through our blood, ears
inflamed with sound, green curry
burning in our eager mouths,
hands sticky and stained,
wild pulse at our tender throats.