My divisions

The more that we meet
on street corners,
with winter hats & hands
cold with cigarette,
the more settled
our future imagined
projected by my map
of estuaries becomes,
my widening course
meeting your tide,
rivulets of stone into
which this run off seeps.
Pushing up, there is a position
where we meet. I have
used this form before
& shrunk inside
the notion of someone
else’s believing, filled
by transcriptions of things
that came before you
knew how to keep.
Even now I retain
that element of surprise,
threatening to make
names but walking away
as you offer to negotiate.
Leaving us. I don’t think
the light is much to brag
about. It is loss. Intimacy
exposed, then secreted.
What I am trying to say
is that I want to hear the heat
of your feeling without
planning retaliation,
subtle strategies
of inserted cleaving