by Craig Arnold
ON the fire escape of your rented room
we sat and felt the empty city
sweat and fret we passed a cigarette
back and forth as once we passed
words like these between us without
hope of keeping
Now I write
without hope of answer to say
that what we gave each other nakedly
was too much and not enough
To say that since we last touched
I am not empty I hear you named
and my heart starts the pieces of your voice
you left are interleaved with mine
and to this quick spark in the emptiness
to say Yes I miss how love
may make us otherwise
-excerpted from “Asunder,” Made Flesh