Garbled Harold

you did not hold my hand
I remember this
but it was cold, and I kept my aching fingertips
inside the pockets of my long blue coat.

I wore plumb-colored high heels and you said
they did not match the blue

but I argued

you did not hold my hand as we walked the nearing midnight
Seattle streets, the vacant face of cobblestones and cracks in the
silvery wet concrete. You did not hold my hand, walking ahead,

I even took my naked hand away
from my pocket, I kept it long and ready
at my side,

ready for you.

A car honked at us at me you said
but I laughed, saying


it's a shock now,
an awkward final scene, exit
music in the wintery solstice of
this last night when we laid the wrong way
in the king size bed, and watched
crowded windows fill with
hungry youths, the hungry
ghosts all grinding through the
spaces of street corners, the tiny
pulses of our kiss that last kiss

I don't think much
of it, dead now, like the night,
like the air crisp with electricity and neon,

you didn't reach for my hand,

I remember that now in the garbled
grunt of exhaustion tight on my wrists
like a phantom cut, fingers drumming

drumming drumming


is is is
nothing anymore.