If Sunlight Was A Smile

You in your
cheap as chips,
mirror-tinted sunglasses:
I am continually catching
glances of myself
in unassuming poses;
moments of delightful torment.

When I try them on
I am distracted by
the slight reflections
of my own eyes
in my peripheral vision:
so wet and precise
and swept over by
the blue sky and my
black, black eyelashes
with that quite quiver

predictably,
inevitably,
pulling back
to your unflinching gaze.

Daly Grind

Your love
is like sitting here
on a gray, vaguely wet morning
in early june
waiting for the train home
after the night that was:
disappointing.