Talking About The Distance Between Here and New York

Slivers of who we once were
meet under fingernails of moon on
our first night's pillow.

Concrete signs claim we've arrived.
Perhaps it's easy to mistake our hometown
for some other city.

Long division of two bodies-
belly button suctioned to backbone,
that tiny amber fleck sleeping on your iris.

We count insecurities night to night
because our parents taught us it's best
to forget sheep.

We become vegetarian.
Anemic. Two words shook up in a bottle, tossed
for sea long miles.

Against a fog lined bay we emerge
in latticed day from some frothy half-slumber.

Pressing lips to ridges
on the back of your left wrist, I kiss
corked veins that lead to a switchbacked unknown.

You lace your pockets with glass.