After the Resurrection

To eat lemon
cake with a spoon,
to dream of walking on
that bridge with you 

(not beneath it
in a tourist vessel),
to be so confident
grace will follow 

is to be willing to go
where there are no
sidewalks and still reach
the hotel before it rains. 

To choose to stay
there instead of in 

a house, to fantasize
about local lobbies 

and dimly lit bars
encased in translucent glass 

and steel where the coffee is
strong and black, to imagine 

the sound of an elevator door
opening at my feet 

is the closest I come to memorizing
the music woven
into the fabric of this chaise
we might share.

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