Poem fraction, discovered today

Found in an old notebook of mine, circa 2010. (Where was I going with this?)

The twisted tooth-edged shrapnel:
We've made an art of it.

As people do, waiting through the oil
changes, for Christmases, undressing
and redressing the past.

And I've cut my hands
on the splintered days, on
the smallest shifts of your moving lips,
how memory can cripple
a morning.

Your veins so blue

I wrote this yesterday at work, mostly out of sheer boredom. I like to mess around with words.

Your veins so blue,

the course of falling leaves

we lay beneath –

I swung to you.

There is only so much gathered,

fixed, miraculous, a touch,

a sigh unsighed. “Why,

nothing can be held,” you said,

not looking in my eyes.

And yet, not just my hips,

not only spangled blood and

cheekbone planes, not just

your veins so blue,

so blue, so still, the constance

of desire.