The months dig in,
I mention only
the last of them,

their many ankles, if you will, that
trample the last of
all these years.

Under them, I’m unheard of,
so much quieter than
the entire world.

And, at the coffee shop,
a middle-aged woman turns
and for a moment looks.

Strange to be seen like that,
which for a moment,
seems I’m caught

the way a dream grips
for a day
or for two,

and then, not.
That night you turned,
and touched my cool,

naked shoulder,
as if you were about
to lead me out

to another place,
and asked whether we
could have new lives

and I,
who continued
to sleep through

another winter,
disbelieving in the warmth,
newly awake.

– ph