How this ache stops me, old teacher
that it is. Often on the way home
when the wiper won’t clear it away.
Or after a call with a friend who longs
for something he can’t quite name.
After utter companionship, not knowing
what to say, when everyone has gone to bed,
and the moon has stopped being shy, I put
my tongue on the table like a paper weight
and walk wordless through the night.
The place where beauty meets pain
is where we bend, not break.