The married man, when he was nearly
mine, gave me advice once
on who to marry. Not
an intellectual, he said in the shower,
so nearsighted he kept his glasses
on. Never an intellectual.
It wasn’t airy, a slip-up. I knew
because his face darkened
like an age passing. I withdrew
to an untouched corner, moth
singed by a false moon.
For longer than I can bear to tell you,
his words fanned down
on me—a light mockery,
a falling house of cards.