WEBVTT

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The Shared World.

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Into the bow of your ear I
whispered the secret story.

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Now you can't sleep either.

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Consider it part
of your own memory.

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Connecting our childhoods
that would have otherwise

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never crossed.

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I fell down, and your
knee was scraped.

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I stuffed the yellow
cake into my mouth,

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and your stomach cramped.

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When you were abandoned,
grief filled my well.

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The private ravages of our
spent youth and adulthood,

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now implicitly intimate.

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You pull me to you
because I have already

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softened your sharp elbows.

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The pressure of your
fingers in my shoulder

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leaves an impression
as if in need.

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I had touched myself.

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We are insomniacs.

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The grip of night freeing us
from the slept-through day

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and its demands.

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It is true, once you
know, you can't unknow.

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So we ruminate on
literature and the gods,

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and continually seek the
ousia of the empty jug.

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But we need no wine, really.

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We are eager to get on with it.

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To take in, or do whatever
forwards this living.

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This tripwire keeping us tied,
kite to string, present to past,

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arrow to quiver.

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