the passage of time

a young boy drew pictures of statues,

and smoked cigarettes on the floor

as we sat on the rooftop,

staring at the dead old streets

he told me that I was obsessed with the passage of time.

I am obsessed with nothing, I tell him,

with nothingness,

with the absence of _____.

I watched some dirty river next to a lovely boy

with Indian cheekbones and tangled brown hair

who wrote a poem about the ribbon

I wore around my neck

and told me that he was obsessed

with precision, with

the exact color of an over-ripe plum;

no, I tell him, you are obsessed

with the moles on my back,

the shapes your fingers trace

slowing my breathing as I sleep.

walking north on the Florida coast

with a strange boy, who said very little

and I said very little

and the water wasn't cold in winter.

he said, you are obsessed

with the seagull who has followed us,

the way your eyes follow his whiteness:

he is hoping for bread.

but my eyes were not following the seagull, and I explain to him

about the lines in the distance,

the constant horizon, juxtaposing

the ocean to the sky.

it is still october,

in another new city.

the wind outside my bedroom window

shuffles the leaves like playing cards.

I am still waiting

for the same sharp smell in the air

and watching the clouds enact their changes;

I am still obsessed

with the passage of time.