Old Coats
tonight my hand plunged in
and you rustled,
like dry butterfly wings,
like hair on a pillow,
like empty paper that used to hold mints.
Dangerous and brutal,
fumbling in time,
swiming in pockets
farther than France,
nearer than my fingertips.
I long for this,
not you.
The papers fall to the floor,
Just trash.
The mints disappeared
long ago.
-November 30th, 2008
