Poets, like old gossips,
Lean across fences of words,
Trading the ripest phrases
For a bit of sweet applause.
In their hands,
Verses squirm and twine,
Each stanza a thread
In love\'s worn sweater.
We kiss like accountants,
Calculating the warmth,
Making entries on the ledger
Of our lapsed wanderings.
I knit silence into speech,
Our pillow talk now tight stitches
On a quiet night\'s canvas
A pale ghost trying on his shroud.
The essence of us,
Thick as fog on a harbor,
We cloak our bones
In the tender arithmetic of vows.
We are clumsy carpenters,
Mending bridges as we cross,
Our kiss the last nail,
Pounding away the dark.