All that I have written seems like straw to me,
like wandering wisps of his hair on fire
that light up this tunnel we call life. I loved
him as if he were corn husks, as if all I had to
do was peel away threads of something dead
to find what I’ve been looking for all this time.
As we pedal our blue bicycles through this
darkness, the light at the end flickers out of view.
On this trail along the river, we are harvests
of muscle hunched over rusty handlebars.
Moments like this are blisters on my palm
like when I try to hold your hand in the movie theater.
When I say try, I mean to say hold my hand open
until you notice and take it softly in your own.
this poem's first line was written by St. Thomas Aquinas.