Adam Jon

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

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

When we talk,
do you see the light
bending around my eyes
as if something were there?

When we talk
in tones that pass for friendly,
connected as partners in bed,
exhausted from a day or each other—
the quiet homily of touch,

you’re one room
and two miles, maybe hundreds,
a different sky altogether, maybe,
in a tumult of blankets

and other things.

What river-mouthed words do you want,
when we talk?
Mine are slack, static,
but yours—if you want them—
when we talk about
pulling the same ocean apart.