I wrote you letters
that year crisp into the millennium.
I held the anguish in my arms
heavy as a pig’s heart
it was beautiful and thick and refused to bleed.
You flared out,
and I saw your different yous,
a peacock’s tail against the rain.
In Washington Square Park,
the grass where we lay
ripping out the pages cut from our loss
ripping out the edges
that sliced off our arms,
ripping out the kiss the stain of your mouth kept, we walked under the stone arch
while the hot dog vendors talked in Spanish.
The white curtain folds
over those awkward figures, the nib punctures a wrist
it pools on a glass table
like ink.