Look for the Man
When I mistake the church’s clock face
for a full moon, I am mistaking my love
for a mere theory circling my brain.
In the context of a great love ending,
one may understand the attraction to
a blind hubris with hips.
I had hoped, at the time, that you would
surround yourself with the kind
of genial friends who wouldn’t try to sleep
with you and instead provide you with some
crucial distraction: a cider and then another, and
then a party, laying on their backs on the
lawn with you, pointing out patterns in the
great clouds above. When you left me
I had hoped the same for myself, but
when the Summer mayflies hopped about
me, up my arms and thighs and prickled
I found myself lying next to who might
next replace you, much as you did when
we first ended. I learned, and cannot
forget, with what confidence she imbued
you. We were planning our life together.
A life, in which we would drink ourselves
into a stupor and lie, a life that needed
your revision before embarking upon
and getting that one last fuck out of the way
before working out that this was real.