Two poems

I'm feeling a little fragile today, so I'm going to keep comments closed on this. But I'd love to hear any feedback or thoughts you might have -- just email me.

This is my version of a love poem:

Colored, Separate

The day woke up with questions, a loss of a particular.
An item of jewelry, for example. But it was not precious.
Here there were line breaks, and there were in-between
days without protein. For years she’d lived in fear of it,
and despite vigilance was found washing someone else’s
underwear, folding it wrong. In that they felt pressed.
But winter hurried, promised embellishment through
repetition, a secret to practice. On paper she’d made the
corrections in bright red ink, always noting ETA and
discrepancies, still worrying about others despite
knowing better. The question involved having something
to fall back on or into and who knows. Days before too
unfortunate had frozen together in the pond. Coming full
circle some would think, north to south to north. After a
long journey he stood at the door, unwinding the space
behind it. Full of words among others. This had been
captured before in an old master’s painting also.
Something like patience or endurance in the face of.
She’d practiced freehand on someone in college and the
improvements were negligible. The shade was too dark
he said, like claustrophobia. But there were chores, and
television, and a moment linking them. That is what is
and what is remembered and counted on. Here’s where
they touch, and the linens are fresh.

This is one rendition of my coming-of-age:

How to Steal or Reinvent

She looks terrified barely visible under water; another
flips her fingers in smoke and is kept light. Who wants
her and why she is not noticed, these essential things
that seem clumsy or awkward will be the better for it
or we want to believe so. In momentary lapses her
face was pretty if only, mirrors rearranged the
unspoken. No, but I meant that in a good way. We eat
rice and fish seriously, assume our positions change or
are possible. What satisfaction for those chosen at the
last, cowboy hats back in a slight twist at the knee, a
wash of overwrought color. At this point she’d had
just about enough and was looking for new forms,
something stationary to pin hope on, but that was
years ago. Those were wasted on someone else’s
hypotheses and trust before in after; the haloed
curtains now drawn against, a shadow folded neatly on
carpet.