MY BRIEF LOVE FOR YOU HELD THESE THINGS

My brief love for you held these things:
transparent hope of women, restless
copper-tasting kisses.
I wonder if you'd ever had these things,
held a fragile teacup in your palm,
breathed gently into steam
felt a wave of sex-driven grace wash over you;
flown apart completely and reassembled
in a moment of not moving.
Took a sip, scorched your tongue
felt the grains of sugar catch in the back of your throat
at the end of the swallow;
the finish is green, surely leafy.
As unsettling and common
as a tripping on a tree root,
breaking a wine glass while washing,
blood on the stem
that sense that the shards will never be
cleanly swept up,
the sense that the blood will stain your shirt,
that nothing will ever give you peace again
in this strong sunlight.

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