Intimacy
If I go to the moon
with you in my hand
after a 3.5 mile run
into an earthquake.
I mean try to find it,
the moon, in terms
of a simple vodka
tonic. Alone all
month, the cat
stares at the
wall. Can’t
this vague
memory,
perhaps
that of a fire
alarm, happen
when I only read
poems from women?
