To an Almost-Fiancee
I know why you don't think of me often.
I ran from our wedding, from the guests
dancing four hands, seven, eight, six, then four,
forty names living at the same address,
each with a stipulation that I love
how many of your faces show themselves.
Nobody'd bend to my reality
because they had too many of their own.
Your ring is made of rings, a square plus one.
More than that, I'd met a crush who saw you,
who kept me with you until I bolted.
We're married now, but she said it's all right
for me to ask you out sometime this week.
We won't think when we think of each other.
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