You look- but not at me
and not through me- for that would imply depth

You look at the air five inches in front of your face.

With your lacking pants and sock-scrunched legs
cuff-less wrists and brow.
You sit relaxed to hide your shaking stance.
Your nervous hands.
touching nose and glasses and pen, you read,
with a brashness that implies nothing.
caring is either beyond you or behind you.
pen in hand,
Like letting go would prove you blind-
would strip you of your clothing-
cause you naked.
The way to hide
vulnerability, is lost.

pants folded up, gold rimmed glasses,
and as you scratch your ear, movement slight,
The emptiness of your secret is exposed.

10/23/2002

Posted on 10/23/2002
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