What I Should Have Said

          There’s nothing that says you can’t

          call. I spend the weekdays teaching

          and moving my children from breakfast

          to bedtime. What else, I feel like a traitor

          telling someone else things I can’t tell

          to you. What is it that keeps us together?

          Fingertip to fingertip, from Santa Fe

          to Albuquerque?

          I feel bloated with what I should say

          and what I don’t. We drift and drift, with

          few storms of heat inbetween the motions.

          I love you. The words confuse me.

          Maybe they have become a cushion

          keeping us in azure sky and in flight

          not there, not here.

          We are horses knocked out with tranquilizers

          sucked into a deep deep sleeping for the comfort

          and anesthesia death. We are caught between

          clouds and wet earth

          and there is no motion

                                               either way

          no life

          to speak of.