They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Trick | Chad Bennett

No blue yet. It rained

while I slept. I should

be working but

I text you your name,

three times: You, You, You.

Perhaps you’ll come

over tonight. At my

desk I write: The day goes

gray as weathered wood.

It might rain again. When

you text me a picture

of yourself in front of

a mirror, masturbating,

your face obscured by

your phone, the sun blinks

on. The sky smells

of wet wool. What

is that tree called, still

and silver? I should

know. And what were you

thinking of, bored or

stirred to some joy

or stupor, fixed

on your own image

in your phone in

that mirror that

held your belly’s burst

of shocked black hair?

What we have is small

and strange. But true.

I once thought: to be

in love: is to lose

face and accept it.

Isn’t every poem

for someone?

Why not you?