My life
Keeps
Slipping out of the
Controlled quarters
Of my
Misperceived
Privacy:
The crevices between
My grey
Collapsing
Hands.
He folds his legs
In the waiting room--
Khaki and
Beige
[All my life].
I study the
Velvet veins
Of him.
Below his eyes
[Indigo Bruises]--
Sleepless
Domes.
There is no room
For disbelief
In
The Short.
Why does it
Take us
Our entire
Lives
To believe
In the
Sanctity
Of
One hour?
