Hurt my eyes, my bones,
those muscles with memory
make themselves
known. To wake
to news
of a dimness
that has descended
from a light that has been extinguished
permanently—what is left
to fear? He cannot die
all over again,
can he? But the pain
is real. Spasms stun
me into beginning
those stages of awareness,
grief again, out of order.
The last lift
she achieved
cannot prepare her
(or him)
for any elevation
gained or lost
the next
morning. Hot
or cold, tea
spilled at regular
intervals throughout
this next
day begins
to resemble a channel
not carved
by man (or woman).
He broke the words
she thought she wanted
to court
him with. She speaks
in whispers
that vaporize
on contact. He took
the long way
around the park
at dusk
to see her
leaving. She does
not know
this could happen
to her again.
She responds more slowly, moves
more deliberately
as if her body has made a choice:
To be less
impulsive, more
responsible to the overall balance
of energy
in the world. To be still
long enough to receive
satellite signals
that will navigate her
to hidden trails
maintained by those
who are too soon gone.
An old park viewed
from a heightened
angle. Which bird’s
eye? Left or right or
mind’s? Will the 21st-century
Cyclops fly? How
will I capture
it with my butterfly
net? What about you?
They are
pointless. A 20-year age
gap. Don’t label
me that other
name for puma
when I haven’t leapt
on any prey. Figures
he played
guitar in a former
life. I wrote geography
books for kids
in one of those. Scroll
into a building
on a street
in a city
of the world mapped
without any
borders beyond
those city limits. Don’t
print it—walk it
off. A 20-year
gap looks so tiny
on this hand
held device. Who
holds mine next
may not be in hiding.
Gray explosions
on white on
a shower
curtain say more
than a rainbow
garden of stripes
or petals or
letters of an alphabet
gone mad. And
the red
towel hanging
over the bar
becomes the doorway
to fabric tunes
in motion. Splat
ball in a claw
foot tub might sound
like this.
And more deadlines to meet
even in dreams. With extra
obstacles and an octopus
of black power
cords that need to get
from A to B
before dawn. And the fishing
might be
good if it rains. And that man
who walks his Cavalier
King Charles
Spaniel near the archery
range just might be
the last man she kissed good-night.
And the old floating
bridge moans
as the cattails
whistle and she nods
to the fish
in the pond below. And
urban nature’s
reach rescues
her once again
from herself.
Startled by the number 27
on my apartment door,
the nearest cross
street to an avenue
I used to live on. Where
did it factor
in your life
before it became
the day you died?
No reflexes can wake you
now, no tallies
too low, temperatures
too high. You used
to say time
was make believe,
manufactured to manage obsessions—
yours, mine, the rest
of the world’s. When light
rain placates a summer afternoon,
I wonder who
did the making and what
materials were used. You would
have known. Which mattered
most—the distance
you traveled or the moments
passed observed? You kept track
of both despite everything
because you knew
no other way to live.
