Derek Mong
The Second Year
Like the last house still lit
within a cul-de-sac
you draw the street’s sporadic
light behind your glass
and hold it. Your thoughts, I mean,
they trend effortlessly inward
as less leaves you enamored.
Not long ago I scooped
a bubbled necklace
from your bathtub, or paused
to point out—see it, caught there
in Sutro Tower’s tongs?—moons
still risen in the morning.
But the surprise of sidewalk stones
has given way to words;
they dull a new thing’s charm,
make room for make-believe
and remembering.
I’ve long dreaded the latter—
how my impatience
will lodge itself inside
your mind’s dark loam.
Nothing bright from it will thrive.
What faults of mine won’t fester?
In time these words will replace
the man I’ll become, while
the man I’ll become
will replace the one who wrote them.
I feel your eyes upon me
endlessly. I see myself
smoldering inside them.