Trying to do poetry.

I don’t talk

til the car stops moving. I run

through the words

til they collapse at the red light.

“This is what you do. Put your arms

around me and let me cry

into you.”

It’s 86 degrees but he cranks

the heat, tries to drown

his silence with our sweat

as if the sting of salt water

alone could sate me.

“It’s that simple. That’s all you

do.” Still

silent, he floods his car

with the sounds of Steve Reich.


The first time he played me

a Reich song he said

that stillness is a type of growth,

repetition a form of rapture.

I wanted to laugh, but I listened

instead to the tide of marimbas

ebbing at his speakers

and hoped to hear something more.


When the light turns green his foot
hits the gas and somewhere he

is already searching for a new

note to play.