One

I.
You talk over the top of my wet tongue, cheap beer
sliding across the words I keep forgetting to say.

We float home, find the kitchen counter bright
in my back, my knees burned by the empty

carpet, the shower then the sheets and back
until someone falls asleep, usually me.

But once, once I caught you sleeping
naked. I pinned you down, threads wrapped

around tiny stakes stuck in my mattress.
I read your thoughts as they bubbled up

through the chilly morning, making me
shiver. You sat up later, blinking, pulling

the pins out. You picked at the strings,
wondering, saying next to nothing.

II.

This is how you leave-
slowly, carefully
remove the barbed fishhook
from the soft part of my belly
put it in a pocket
of your brown tweed hat-
from England!

I worry the wound
with my pinkie finger
for the next week
until once again you reel me
forward.

This is an amalgamation once again of snippets overheard, people viewed through tiny lenses, all gleaned from my notebook. 20 down, 10 to go. It is a marathon.