Wayne Miller

Two Men Shouting

The space between them
is a solid object

they push against.

———

I want to make them into a form—

a mirroring—
mouths open,

the mists of their spit
becoming one mist. Their lives

have fallen away,
they are just

this shouting.

———

When they quiet
for a moment

they’re like two
balancing

pans of a scale. Then
they lift themselves again

above the room,
where the rest of us

are clearing the table.

———

A ritual of power,
you say,

the structure that holds us—until
one of them

hits the other in the face
with a bottle.