Sam Ross | Two Poems
Did I fill my mouth with salt?
Did I equate night and affinity?
Were there two lampposts in the forest?
Did I need to be right
or did I dare abandon? What bewilders
a compass? What good is
a life spent tracing the light
on friends’ faces fading in the street?
When a lover asks you
to wash your feet before bed
will you sleep? Imagine clotheslines?
Weren’t the lakes north of here
who had drowned in them?
I have tried to do no harm
but sparks fall from an overpass
under night construction
into the lights of cars. It goes on:
for now, for good, forever.
In this heat what wouldn’t I steal
for ten seconds of kissing? Once
I drove through Arizona made blue
by unusual rain. After cruelty
a stranger said to me:
I’m only one
in a world filled with it.