Some conversations are not about what they’re about.
–Anne Carson
he does not do well
along conversation’s surface
preferring to drift
in small talk’s eddies
watching her eyes
like fireflies in the dark
a light breeze wafts
between them occasionally
as she smokes a cigarette
talking between idle pulls
filling the night’s silence
in twirls of conversation
then as a gambit
to shift the play
she asks a question
simple small not coy
to let him take a turn
to coax him into talk
slow mute minutes
expand before he begins
to talk toward her
inquiry in earnest
even in the dark
with slow rhythms
he waves his hands
through the air
as if conducting thoughts
between his words
every effect requires
a causal explanation
every story unfolds
into yet another
patiently he laces events
together into patterns
tracing trail after trail
like a bird sliding through trees
to finally alight upon a branch
at forest’s distant edge
“wow, that went deep really fast”
she said
he laughs “that is
where I live”
(March 17, 2016)
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