Poetry

Neither Just Nor Like

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 POETRY





Neither Just nor Like  
by Mark Bibbins  







1.

If all cities are made of light, then what?

Champagne on the sidewalk,

we drink to the eclipse

and kick the black edge

of a loading dock

with the backs of our feet.

Watch his legs.



2.

A kiss comes up

in the lesbian bar.

Then some bad news,

which in this story

I ignore.



3.

A bald guy drums along

on a cardboard box.

We can see his smile

from here. The street

soft under our feet,

place where light is kept.



4.

He’s exposed

as another perennial

bad-boy type.

What a look from him holds,

holds off.



5.

And I say maybe,

hanging off the edge of his bed.

He will gather

or not.

Seems to like the laces on my shoes.



6.

He: undressing.



7.

Me (no longer

subject,

but being

acted upon):

should stop this.



8.

It feels safer on the couch,

isn’t. The light

makes several windows

on the ceiling. The fire

escape adds angles

to the shadows—his,

on his way to me.



9.

In this weird light he wants

to kiss again.



10.

A movie tilts

over the avenue.

My wanting, my wreck

and desire—may I

never regret having asked,

may I.























©1999
Mark Bibbins and Nerve.com