I Can’t Not Watch

She could have been
me, plain, a white sheet
beating its wings against
the sun and breeze
hollowed egg shell smiling
fiercely at the day.
But then

love is content
in the calm of night,
the wispy quiet of stars and air
grown less swollen
by the absence the sun.
And to

watch him
across
the thickly varnished
table in the bar’s dim
light, the rain waiting
like a heater left on seventy
when someone forgot to close
the door. Here shadows dull
his kindness
and soften his face,
the patient persistance
stands behind
a cold feigned
or perhaps

not feigned.
I reel myself back, pin
my brain to my sleeve,
force my mind from
back bent
and weeping, or thighs
spread just so,
straining threads
of denim, hand
on gearshift,
cologne, expensive
shoes,expensive
jeans.
I take

action snapshots,
catalogue them
quickly into files, flip
the pages cartoonishly –
photograph.
face.
message.
reality.
humanity.
You can feel them.
They are

real. Love them
later, I
think. It is possible
through presence, a hand
as an afterthought,
stories before
you, those are memories, finger
creases, gapped, square,
or sharp
teeth. the rash
from peppered beard left
on a cheek, a two handed
animated
gesture, an opened
door, free-form worry,
encouragement,
reluctant
fumbled confessional
of compliment.
For you

I would shake her
hard, make sure
she knew.

You can

fall in love
if you can
keep yourself
here.
She can
love you for real
If she
can be present

and not
give in
to repulsion
when
the inevitable
repulsion
comes.