Things I'm doing when I don't want to be doing nothing,

when wanting enters into it,
like twitching just the last knuckle of my pinky
to get a server's attention,
that kind of control I'd like over life.
Just a gradient,
a one shade left
toward life from death,
your grandfather's eyelid trembling
as you raise your lips
from his cool forehead,
tasting powder on your lips.

And I like starting things with "And";
it feels like stepping
from a place we were together
just a second ago,
now invisible,
like all past moments
that were too important to waste
on writing down.  
And I was there then,
in the pre-And,
empty as a necked beer
returned for the small change,
and you weren't,
until I invented you.

Hold me like a rolled sleeve
holds laundry water. Cling to me
like the yos of distant bros
cling to your skirt as you walk home
late alone through the Market
in a drunk of terror.
It's not even mini, the skirt,
you think.
Who gets stiff over shins?
Even hanged men.
I'm not different: your bare legs walking
snip my thoughts
like scissors made of light.
It's just that you're walking toward me,
your eyes transforming
my eyes on you.

JM Francheteau