Midlife Critical

This is the midweek hump
The honey of my breath
I want sticky on my fingers
This is middle earth
tired limbs, aching bones.
I remember birth and death
come at the other end.
Sanity in intermediate flux
Here we stand. Middle ground
Hungry for equidistant passages to inspiration
Middle fear, mid life
Whys and hows and hopes
The book of ours burying thick
pages on its own in intimate layers.
They know each other too well—
sticky fingers can’t seem to flip to the end.

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For My Ladies

We are some miracle, I think
on lonely days, that we come
back to time and place lips
on fresh wounds, bury problems
asunder even though they bleed
through the spaces of our unsteady hands.

I wonder at the places we’ve been
in our minds, the fantasies that they
can never hope to satisfy, the climactic
utopian visions we imagine of sex and
peace and religion. The epic visions of our faith.
Simple, possible unity leveled by an unruly gang
carrying testosterone and wealth.

If only the world of banks could
live in our minds, what wealth
to spend, what passion to eat.
If only they knew what was good for them
what a wonderful world it would be.