Taking It Slowly

by James Croal Jackson

In our slowness, a shooting
star suspends. A sword

icicle in the sky, posing.
I want the skin-to-skin

but not the puncture–
I’m afraid to fall

in love with you. You remove
my hand from your back then whisper

in my ear at the bar in Blue Sky.
We watch men try to score,

rubber bands extending
past the point of no return,

their fingers strained
and purpling. In the rain

we escaped from, I held you
under unfit umbrella, the size

of its heart too grand to avoid
the sidewalk trees, and you

just laughed as we got wet,
shaking bells

and leaves– our hands
entwined, aging

more rapidly
than planned.