What Lies Between Us

That's the title of an old, old poem--a truly mediocre poem, in fact--about the Delaware river, someone's grandfather's silver puzzle rings, an old leather jacket, and a pewter tea pot. It wasn't ever really about those things, of course, but about the relationship that spawned them. Fifteen years later, so much more lies between us. So much more truth, and everything else, still lies between us.

What Still Lies (a fragment)

The months that pass when I don't hear from you,

except in the unspoken language of blues,
as I try to decipher the radio codes into a message
meant only for me, the words still unspoken after all this time.

The river at night. 

The memory of your body,

of mud on my knees from praying 

at the altar of you. 

A tangle of rings

and promises our bodies made

that denies everything else.

A puzzle we still cannot solve.