Adam Jon

Other things
get in the way.
Drinks sometimes.
Sometimes drinks, anyway,
from a mess of ceramic mugs
never touched by machine

or awkwardness,
or fear, or regret
that gets in the way, that is,
when we talk.

When we talk,
what colors do you see
bending around my eyes
like a wet ring on a table?

Is it the yellow early morning darkness
that sees you even with your wine
or coffee when we talk
in tones that pass for friendly,
connected as partners in bed
exhausted from a day or each other-
the homily of silence and touch.

But you’re two rooms
and several miles away,
hundreds maybe,
in a tumult of blankets

and other things.

What words do you want,
when we talk?
Mine are limp, saturnine,
but they are yours
if you want them
when we talk about