If I had but a minute
Of your attention to myself--
The assurance that your eyes
Will lock, for the moment,
With nobody's but mine,
I think

I would tell you a lie.
I think I would waste this minute.

In all probability, singe my eyes against yours like
Icarus singed his wings against the sun.

And for this reason, I am happy
To have lack of this moment -- content
To await it from now until never.

Yet sometimes, when my lids have
Blocked reality from my brain,
When the night has reached its still most hour,
I like to pretend that we were
Meant, or so they say, to be.

And in the mornings after, when these dreams
Have collected like lint in my pockets,
I open the heavy door again to life
And think, yes, if I could,
I would lay the night, like a pillow,
Beneath our heads.

December 3, 2005.