Tag Archives: distance



After all this time
you thought that love
might be floating
in the air between you—
might be settling
onto your skin
like a favorite
flannel shirt with
frayed edges so soft
you don’t want
to remove it for anything—
but maybe you don’t feel
the same to him
because he doesn’t seem
to want you
wrapped around him
in those photographs
he offers to the public eye
wearing that smile
you were certain
was meant only for you.








“The Gleaner” by Jules Adolphe Breton, 1900



Baking brownies
makes me feel
at peace
with the amount
of turmoil in my life
which is probably
not much
or less
than yours—
whoever you are
reading this poem
on a Friday night—
and if you’re reading
this poem on a Friday night
you’d probably rather
be elsewhere
the one
you love—
the one who
happens to be
at the place we’ve
identified as elsewhere
so you should make sure
you have a couple of eggs
and cocoa powder and sugar
because baking brownies
is a temporary bridge
back to that state
of being mostly
content and






“Dutch Girl Having Breakfast” by Jean-Etienne Liotard, 1756

The Truth

This is what
nobody tells you
most of the time
no one likes to admit
there is wiggle room
when it comes
to certain facts
about themselves—
or that maybe
love is really
the shortest
distance between
point A and point B
and straight lines
are simply the most
economic way
to get there.
Aren’t we taught
that the truth
is absolute
and righteous,
and that flux
and flexibility
are the enemies
of precision
and perfection?
All those religions
promise it’s something
worth betting
your sweet life on—
but I think
there’s only one thing
that can set us all free—
the only truth
that matters
is that there isn’t
only one.






“Figure at a Window” Salvador Dali, 1925


Our small paychecks
afford us a small vacation.
Four days is all.
Not even a week
to leave behind our life
as we know it.
So how important it is
to make it count—
all those seconds
into a few moments
worth remembering!
Even the last few miles
are precious,
and so the vibe, the mystique,
our great escape
was somehow
diminished, relinquished
and maybe even spoiled
when I suggested
we stop for lunch
instead of waiting
another hour
before we got home—
but you didn’t want to
because you were already
making plans to go to the gym
immediately after
we unloaded the car—
no slow transition
back to the familiar,
no snuggly nap
on our comfortable bed,
no decompression
upon re-entry.
You were already back home
without me.
You were already gone


DeMaris Gaunt