1.
My sweatshirt is too tight,
and I pull the fabric away from my arms
like fatty skin.

2.
We’re walking across the
football field, and Diane’s shoelaces
drag mud across her ankles. When
she tells stories it feels like she’s living

inside of everyone else, giving them reasons
and inhaling the way they eat, the way
their hair hangs.
I’m too scared to ask her why,
because she might forget how to do it.

1.
It’s too warm for my sweatshirt and
I let it twist behind my waist, the empty sleeves
reaching toward my pockets. Diane
unbuttons her peacoat and
ask me if I want to talk, nodding
as if she wants to help me.
I let her think I didn’t hear.

2.
We stop at her house
and watch while the sun touches
the parked cars on its way down. The clouds
look like a city and I imagine
that she’s there, telling a story about herself
standing against the telephone pole.
I sit on the grass and ask if
she can see it, pointing with my bare
fingernail.

3.
I think she’ll be confused, but
she smiles like she’s learning
something about me and says “thanks”.
Her coat and my jacket sit next
to each other near the curb.
My palms press against the grass, and Diane’s
back grows into the wood, her
eyelashes framing her face
while she squints at who I think she is.