Poem
Jonathan Harris

that I will never show her because she will think it’s strange

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You exist only as still frames in my head.

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My name whispered with furrowed brow
like a hard question—
drunk balloon tied onto my bed.

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Your perfect stillness.

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When I said I had reservations I meant second thoughts,
not plans for Friday night,
not these dreams about meeting you for breakfast—

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How much does inner warmth cost
in the eye-blurring air,
among the ominous trees,

​

below the permafrost?

​

Conversation never gets old
for those who hardly speak.
After all, it is known

 

that stars are brighter when it’s cold.