I

                                                                        (throat clearing)

 couldn’t remember where I put down my lines.

The night (s)he called to invite me, I missed a few rings

over a Chopin nocturne I was mimicking with my breath.

‘Will there be others?’ I asked.         

The space between two of anything is a thing so crowded.

I pulled out a notebook in which to practice my hellos, in cursive,

because loops and crescents, and flourish, stick inconclusively

and on and on, like lines,

to the handwriting, to the hand writing.

I began, out of habit, three-fourths down a page,

for a retroactive fit.

(F-O-M-O. You know?)

I already missed what time I’d have with me.           

*

I

                                                               (throat clearing)

 rehearsed so much I sound chalky, unlike me,

or like me, perhaps, till someone realizes.

The rooms, where flocks gather, are monitored.

Every corner has an incline, a curve, a hip

in documentation,

like we are celluloid, not cellular,

like we are in some movie,

neither charming nor impressionable,

nor Wes-esque,

because two of anything stand too far apart

and it ruins the shot.

The background song of a scene cuts through,

a sonnet, yes, but also self-centered,

how it hinges on silence to be heard.

A simple trick, easy on the ears,

soft on the memory,

but troublesome for the eyes.