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when you buy
a new pair of stockings,
trust blossoms in
a second skin, an
onionskin mask against
stage floors, infidelity, and
car exhaust

I bled through the
knee when I fell, going
down to the flat part
of town. you should
have asked me whether I
always tripped on my way
towards relief, but
you only winced
at the stained rayon.

I fiddled with
a loose thread as I
practiced picking up
the phone, rehearsing
for a play that
would never show

this hosiery full of holes
each one a reason
for the lack of seams
between us

I seemed to wear
you for six glorious weeks
that tangled
and ran, until
we lay discarded
at the foot of my bed, and
forgot what it meant to walk.