New Poem

Waiting at the mouth of the forked road

Leading to the same place

Maxwell is playing again, singing in a clear tenor:

his neck veins say hi

I don’t see his neck,

I see your clammy palms

Eye games, seeking your eyes

Has become herculean

I’m not mad at you,

we are human

Mistaking curiosity for fondness,

love. We can’t stretch desire on our laps

We are not gods;

we are no gods.