Still, yesterday, we sat at lunch.

Servers and cooks gathered

at the door to watch a storm,

holding their aprons and nodding.

He offered to get the car,

and I watched him run across the street,

hunched to keep it out of his face, striding.

Slick from the rain,

his car was covered in white blossoms,

dotting the roof and slope of the hood.

I rushed out when he was still

down the street, U-turning.

“Sorry,” I said, climbing in,

“I didn’t think you would get closer.”

Then We Become Strangers

Last night I dreamt my nailbeds molded.

my ankles stiffened,

the skin on my face peeled away.

When you ask what I’m thinking, I tell you

about the brown shoes in the art exhibit,

suspended from the ceiling by fishing wire,

swinging like dancers, meeting briefly.

You reach over,

rub a smudge off the dashboard.