Third Secret Love Poem
throat swells up, it's not a coincidence:
late nights, lemon zest, jiggers along the bar, salt on
my wrist. In LA, everyone is still waiting for the big
disaster. I'm a false pessimist; my money lies among
blades, a hairblower and packed hydrophilic
cotton. I can hide valuables from thieves and erase these
places from memory. He says my smile reminds him
of lost objects, secret and irreplaceable. That mousetrap
bureau is the click I've been waiting for.
At some point, he opens the front door with my key.
There are some things I can't be entrusted to manage
alone: count sheep backwards, walk a straight line,
newspaper clippings in order. Something about his
eyes makes me swallow hard; I hesitate before saying no.