Sonnet No. 3

with Angie LaPaglia

We, talking of beginnings,
as though they were a place
of nightly painted ceilings
and this dark and silent case.

You slide it over to me
like glass across a bar.
"Do I strike you as thirsty?"

You grin. "I know you are."

I stroke the broken leather
inhale, unhinge, and stare
Did each piece become the measure
of the cost that laid it there?

We, among the missing, or at least supposed
We, among the cases never closed.

Written with Angie LaPaglia