Poetry by Tracy Marks

Only Our Wineglasses
copyright 1970 by Tracy Marks

The sum of our dreams
Is uncountable, crammed into our
wineglasses. Respectively.

It is Saturday night, a night
for starting again, saying the right
words, evading speaking
our thoughts
or releasing
any more than a proper
degree of feeling.

That I barely know you,
that you do not know me,
means we sip new wine
slowly, talking over a vacuum
of silence, pretending
we are not strangers....

(But hear,
hear me, I say your name, I listen
to your words, wanting
to plunge deep into the pauses,
to feel the silky softness of your soul.)

Only our wineglasses touch, red with

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