I walk out of the crowd, Holding my holds close to the chest Like shut doors, a bud Which will not open, shrunk leaves Of a touch me not plant.

Lines of the unspoken conversation Dribble from my pursed lips. So much useless spittle, I think As I spit. A line goes arcing into the cold, Freezing and breaking as it falls to the road.

We didn’t talk. But then what was there To tell or hear? Let everything be A revelation such as this heat of your presence I hold in my clenched fists.