Each one partners with another.
When I read your lines,
I think of Blake while
you are pondering Yeats or
thinking of your wife, the soft skin
of her inner thigh and instead
write of the cardinal, blood
red wing and yellow pine,
or how that trail wound
into the forest, past trees as thick
as the teacher’s arm, poised
over your desk so long ago. Her hand
moving toward you, then dropped.
Her attention drawn to another boy.