The moon dimmed opposite
the world from us,
dimmed in a shuttering
we both missed, its slide
a slow eyelid drowsing down
with the waning afternoon, with our
waning wakefulness, waning
attention drawn among too many screens,
our minds like sacking
split along seams and beans
scattering from tear to countertop.
Had I brush or broom,
patch and thread, another mind
and pair of eyes to home
onto the vanishing craters,
the mares muddying the shadow’s cusp,
I might divide my focus,
hold you and the moon
along with the burr and the grind.
Posts Tagged ‘relationships’
The moon dimmed opposite
My heart is patched,
not like a scholar’s
sleeves or a vagabond’s bindle,
but like a sandbox adventure
pressed too soon to gold. Travel
enough and its rhythms
lurch and quaver, its codes devolve
into jambless doors and needed
crates too high to reach.
I shouldn’t have brought
my heart into it –
from the cabin I see only
neurons in the dark,
sheathed in aureate scales
cast from headlight and streetlight,
from facades still bright with icicle strings,
lining concrete that eyes the world shyly
from beneath the most steadfast of snow.
I imagine every axon
as Massachusetts Avenue,
every dendrite a spur into sleep,
every rest there a reset and rewrite,
a background grasp at repair,
bit by bit nudging
undulate data toward lines.
A random place but one we made
once we wandered to it,
one peopled at first by only we two,
unearthed from the hillside and shored
in grey stone. The walk and the roof
forever snowed under, the regular ambient howl
of some cave still unfound and unlit
dress the scene more as outpost than home.
But the whole of it’s mortared
in loving you, and the walls we might line
now with lapis we set in when iron was dear,
our room with its gold clock and hearth
bloomed out from an anchorite’s alcove,
its fire impossibly constant.
Now out from a visitor’s parapet I watch
for sunrise, every ounce with me a treasure –
worn tools left behind to fit diamond and pearl –
waiting for daylight to start the walk home.
Two flames low as dusk,
one with a bowl of cold
potato set by to be quartered.
Orange halves, fork-split muffins,
yolks in pairs, and we two
with our Teflon and our whisks
talking mangoes and capers, garlic,
whether to crush or to press.
My stove hisses like the sibilant
sibling of your radiator, which ticks
away while our tines tip
through crust and crumble
at two tables in two houses,
two mornings separated by a screen.
We might be marking the moments
melting ahead of the liftoff,
meandering out like the last of a year
every time we set out from three,
then unpin the pause -
next best thing to synchronous,
close enough for being so far,
as an hour, shaved down by seventeen
slips past in a stream behind,
separate, similar, steeped
in sentiment, cinnamon-warm,
set to sustain.