we were in the pale green parish hall;
there was bright pink punch and stained
teeth and rain and an abundance of estrogen.
you were reading my poem
out loud with such viscosity
you made me choke up.
how do you do that? i asked.
it’s easy, your laugh tinkled like a
wind chime, your poems are full of glass.
now someone is singing
his eye is on the sparrow
and i’m thinking everyone probably saw it but me:
the way i was calmly lured in.
how could i have known?
i’ve always loved both glass and stone.
i go home to write the first lines
(the best love stories are always retroactive) —
brown eyes: here comes the storm.