Drying Up

Once, there was a statue of a man.
In the next moment, there he was again.
Pretending not to move me, maybe.

I tried not to look at you, Man,
but I had no protection against myself.
My eyes, spooning in your direction.

My ears, cups swiveling to capture
your unexpected laughter at my dickishness:
that thing I just said, whatever it was.

It's not important, oh no, because words
are just packets of sand, moon units,
measures of impossibility.  And anyway

you're perfect rapture without me, my input.
So just stop me, will you, from rewind, replay:
the incredible, the inevitable way

you lay that fork in the drawer, again.
Your hand, slotting it in.
The metal, momentarily warm

but losing its heat now in the darkened drawer.