have nights when sloppy kisses seem just the thing
to bestow on every still-living friend I see
and we’ll stare so close the sparks in our eyes will clank
together, warming our faces, and we’ll be drunk
on air, each other’s breath, we’ll pant, outrush,
and suck each other in, French-cigarette-style, Irish
waterfalls of laughter—such noise!—and good old love
and food we paid someone else to make and serve.
Or maybe I will read about these things
or overhear them but not emerge from my house
because you never know what’s lurking about,
what new horror’s slouching in the wings.
I will stay in, I will demur no thank you,
I will say safe is what I’ve gotten used to.