That switch that gets flipped—
when you’re flailing
it feels accidental, unrepeatable.
. . . in a slough, almost
detached from my work, as if
I could let it float away–
too many variables.
Again, I’ve typed “beset”
instead of “best,” but it wasn’t
going to be best this time,
so I can’t leave it and sign off
like that, as I might have,
though surely you’d get the joke.
And if you didn’t? You’d think
me aloof. – One knuckle’s
so swollen I’m contemplating
getting my ring cut off,
the coral one I had made
from a singlet earring.
(If we knew each other better
you’d know the one I mean.)
Then there’s “yours,” either
too personal or too impersonal,
depending on how it’s read.
So instead, this dash—
though of course I’m yours
and you’re the best—