by Geer Austin
You moved to another state
and I roamed from man to man to woman
from Mulberry Street to West Street
to alphabet streets, past sex workers
on Delancey, where cars rattled and bumped
toward Williamsburg, shaking my bones
while viruses and parasites and bacteria
flirted with my cells. And what I heard
jarred the rocker beat you left behind
your glittery clothing dissonant
synchronicity and departure at odds.
There was no midpoint on our axis.
I thought I knew what mattered
until I didn’t. By then you were gone.
Geer Austin is the author of Cloverleaf, a poetry chapbook (Poets Wear Prada Press). His poetry has appeared in Poet Lore, Fjords Review, Main Street Rag, BlazeVOX and others. He lives in New York City.