There is always someone else.
Before or after, the wind at the back door,
banter go the branches, a blackened chatter
where the moon watches over, glowing.
That man is laughter. That man is your lighter
when you need nothing else but fire. Collider,
they called her, whenever she would bring
a steady face to dinner -pretty she would say.
After or before, the glass and its watery core,
firm sugar, stored in its center, the ice carrier,
mine and yours, lips like lemon rind pores.
There is always someone else.
