nothing hurts
you could turn a hose on me
to get rid of the flames,
to get rid of your fire
but
it wouldn’t work like
your toes work at night
under the blanket,
like your voice works
on Sunday nightand now,
alone,
nothing hurts
and the ice sounds
fragile
in my glass
in front of a baseball game
and I pay them one
drink at a time
at this bar because
they don’t know me,
they don’t trust me,
and as the lip of the
glass hits the bridge of my nose
over and over
and my conversations
die over and over
with whoever finds
the empty stool to my right
and leftas the people in the windows pass
as the minutes pass
nothing hurts
