Two Sonnets for Kate Crowley (2008)

You always wait for Kate's
next move, and when it's
finished you can light a
cigarette, stare off into space,
peer into the windows of distant
buildings, holding offices that
probably have swivel chairs,
people who know more
about money than you do,
but stay too busy to do what
you do, which is each other
on the phone, oh baby oh yes,
jacked/in-box full of what
you jerk from these digital kisses-

Texts at midnight: a pain in my ass.
Here's confusion: your panes of glass
silvered with streaks of moony scrape,
crack-smoke delusion; “I miss you”
thrown like ticker-tape. “I’m lying”
fusions: sheets of white burned in Kate.
Dead mufflers line your Interstate.
Clouds are clueless metaphors, and
there is an oyster-pearl in silence:
we are at war. To quip is violence:
I fuck you out of low-rent shyness,
in a dream sodden with seaweed,
as though the Schuylkill spoke like
the Pacific, its surface all silver spikes.