This is a conversation for an August day,
Unshielded from the sun, without rest,

On foot, on pavement, from this place to that,
Close enough for arm in arm, but not.

A somnambulist pair, mummified, preserved
From rot, the expurgated versions

Of ourselves--you seem to like it best.
Your fingers clutch, difficult to escape.

When the stream between us has slowed,
When the air, so humid, is unrelenting.

That will be when to say what is what.
Today is not the day to talk.

The words live in the roof of your mouth--
Birds, they startle, but do not flush.

Fat, undetected--a grub in the earth, wanting
Only silence--not peace, nor

Pardon of some unforgiven act. Content
In unquivering simplicity, he speaks,

Swallows whole the meal, belches back
A spare thought from his luscious throat,

The forceful pulsing of his jaw, content
With what he has upon his knife. He lolls

His tongue in the affect of desire
And ends his day with zinc against an ailment

That, long sought, does not quite come--the day
Leaves of him a shell, a crust--no thirst

To slake, no tilt at virtue. Mere harm.
He eats. He harms. Worn out, he

Carefully marks his place, and
Extinguishes the light.

Greg Teran has studied poetry with Stephen Tapscott and Lucie Brock-Broido, served four years in the military, and graduated from Harvard Law School in 1999. He lives in Acton, Massachusetts.

 Greg

 Teran