Misa De Gallo

 

In late December the nights lack some of their permissiveness.

 

In the wet decorated hedges, the rich dens

of this neighborhood—maybe in their stillness—

there is something disapproving.

 

Drained and damp under this cashmere, I think: I’ve given

            too much to never cross

your line of hydrangea, to still feel

    like a disruption, for these boots

 

            to make so much noise they give away

my movement

            at this hour, for this to end 

                                  in a concession:

 

Yes, black dome vault of clouds,

            somewhere I began to trust

my body, my tongue and its brutish but deft curiosity.

 

No, silent American town,

            I shouldn’t be walking here alone.

 I shouldn’t have done that.

       The couple I deep kissed were only out for a martini

 before bed.