Love Poem #11
It's strange how our fingers weave
so neatly when we cross the road,
or traipse through shops for carrots,
newspapers, cartons of milk. Sometimes
I'll fold my palm around your knuckles
to keep them warm when we flag down
the bus, or stamp up the hill to town
- once when we skipped there. Sometimes
you knuckle my hand away, remind me
that decisions are shared in this space,
that both must agree to risk the spits
that water the men who hold hands.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
This ones a little more ...
... overtly Brokeback (just in case people were forgetting where I'm coming from):