Thackary
He speaks often about the Pygmalion eclipses
jettisoned like flying fists across the lawn,

a slow-eyed song;
a gray patch against the summery green.

He speaks often of sisters, of their pageantry,
of the underside of Auburn underneath

treads – he says, almost pleadingly:
don't tread on me, and all too suddenly

forefathers cackle rejoicedly in the background
of our common ground, and once again

we find ourselves changed. Statues come
to life in the lilac-laced suburban streets

where we grew up, and fell apart, yet the
avenue is just an angle, after all love

and speaking fragrantly about heart shaped
hairpins and slow-sipped coffee

in mismatching his and her shades completes
the moment more than it will ever

complete us. There's an uncommon
simplicity to me, that you neglect in

your looking, and yet homespun
complementary coupling outlasts

argumentation and misrepresentation -
he speaks often of change,

of childhood flirtation, cold feet,
and sour homes on barren a range.