Even I am not aware of the air

that prevents me from walking to you,

laying my hand on you, your shoulders

whispering closer waves of white.

I stood face to face with what I should say,

my tongue with its voice staring back slips

behind the sun. Are you a soldier for this

weekend? Locate your formula, or else, give in.

I’d like to be the Italian woman biting

my jaw and chin, her secret designs pointed

at me with viewer intent. Here the people walk

their secret walks, hoping no one else takes note.