The goal was to be inexact
but in just the right way.
Then the piece would come alive,
like a boy, estranged on the divan
of a missing woman.
A short taking of breath
that was also a rest.
I itched my face, nodded,
and covered up.
It was dense with paisley
and a short window
low to the ground.
There were no sounds.
His eyes were like soft ash in a toilet bowl.
And he moved in a certain way
that had almost an open sway.
I tried not to think about that too much.
Sand shifted from the wind
like the blunt crushed wing
of a bird—left where it was, poor thing.
Still, the street was streety
and spring had set its alarm clock
so the pollen could wake up
in time for the chitchatting maples.
The light tossed in the leaves.
Then someone got up to leave.
I keep coming back to it.
About our pullover sleep
and the cheap keepsake:
a plastic lizard we put on the desk
after the other mess had been cleared.
Things are nice now, and brooked.
The television like a breeze from an attic,
a window in summer. Time to go out
and move through all the shouting things,
we said. Adjusting. Straightening.
(Ethylene rattled in the yard.)
The hard mortise is over there.
Do you mind?
MAY 2009