a fine line is drawn daily between the by-yourself and the alone, and between every little heartbeat of together, and between not old enough and not young enough, but sometimes you land right on that line and you sing about it in a singing voice that sounds different from your talking voice and all the voices blend together across the country and it sounds like a tribute to tonight, but “tonight” has broadened in the scope of your wonderful gymnastic balance and it’s every night that you can see stretched out in front of you, it’s every time the sun goes down and sometimes you’re all the heartbeats of together and it tastes like dark coffee or light beer and instead of singing about it you shout about it, even if there’s thunder in the clouds and the sun is waiting till past tomorrow to come back, it’s there somewhere just like how the other voices are there somewhere even when you’re on the left side of the line, and right now, tonight, is the same thing as all the nights and it’s the only thing that fills your head as you fall asleep right on the line between the half-light and the morning. and it’s a fine line too, that one.

your young smile, not metallic, caught me off-guard and quickly. it belied your voice, which was apt to project across the verdure, and was so much stronger than mine. we caught the end of summer and wisps of each other’s colds, but only from across the table. minty breath in words, never louder, the crook of my arm with a scent like I think yours has. we slid downhill, momentum loosely attached to our shoulders and flying out behind us. and like a careful demonstration of the unreliable nature of time and structure, we stopped hard at the bottom. and we waited. and then when the sun set, we disappeared. or rather, you did: you and your young smile. your voice gone from the verdure and no mint in the air, my throat clear and my hands empty; never loud and never closer—caught off-guard and quickly.

one, two, three.
hours of sweater lines written on your cheek and
your undereye circles tender to touch and
water in both places and
your shallow breath, violent
saying you’re sorry, sounding like nothing.
sweater lines in the mirror and no way to make him know, and
what that does to you.
one, two, three—
what that does to you

one, two three.
remembering how you don’t like flowers, and
how you are supposed to, and
white knuckles
he asks you to explain.
if only

one, two, three.
four.
unplanned, the monster in the closet
that hasn’t brushed your open palm in years, and
you forgot.
he said don’t worry, once, it wasn’t real
it won’t ruin you
he said that

four.
backs against cold walls, this time, and
long long quiet.
one, two, three.
his undereyes, too, this time, and
your involuntary muscles, violent
unmetered, sorry,
always.
one, two, three, and

four

here and again, where ruins used to be
and you'd step with abandon in your white dress in front of me
only a mad hatter and an alcoholic fool for you, my Alice romanesque
with wonderland on every inch of you

apocalypse acropolis and columns lit from behind but you
lightfooted, Alice, were always so much prettier than tourist traps
and the drinks were stronger across the pond

so here and again, two years dry and two years older
(both of us but mostly you)
and the sand in your hair, long and light and gravity wet and romanesque
like you (and only you)
alice, they call this an impasse.
but you've been drinking too, tonight
and (finally) the stars are blurry for us both


and your mouth is so red
and romanesque
and so close

Nineteen forty four: A broad shoulder silhouette in the milkwhite skyscape.
Winged coy mortality whispers lovewords to his temple
touches fire to his inner thigh and he
pushes her aside and says Maybe tomorrow,
I'm working late tonight.

And he is cold and american but he tells himself
He is Cold! and American! And even in the
sandbag eyelid opal gray morning when his skylegs shake
he is cold and American and his copper girl's
thrilling reproach cannot warm him red
until he unzips his vest and invites her in.



but in forty nine he is twenty seven and American. in forty nine, to be American is to have no skylegs.
but baby death writes him letters while jean marie in her cap-sleeves looks pretty at his side.
and he likes jean marie, he tells himself he likes her better. she is pretty and she is sturdy.
she can make love without leaving burn marks.

but he wears slippers and housecoats and he has no skylegs.
and jean's cap-sleeves show no skin. fire hurt to touch but at least she let him.

and so twenty seven and scared, he reads baby death's neat tiny scrawl
and feels her breath on his earlobe
and winged
coy

he falls to forty four
and flying

heartbroken, housebroken
I lost your nuance, pray remind me
redness across my chest, heat and too many voices at once

heartwarmed, housewarmed
big sweaters, his sweaters on your shoulders, no makeup
the basement with gray fabric trees, and baby kisses, and baby steps.

the milk-foam and the let’s-meet-again espresso hiding untouched posited tomorrow
among banana peels and pearls and tissue

and after, cranberry stains on teacups piled in the kitchen
(a very narrow human interval between two tiger heartbeats)
and tight sweaters, grown-up make-up
that same basement, blank before morning

and the Philosophe, my favorite couched villain over us
too many voices discussing horticulture or eternity
I Do Not Recognize Eternity, is what I told you

tigers slow down for the night, sometimes
--the quickest change of heart, is what you thought

and I, again, chose the stars.

it was
in the congregation of ochre skin around his knuckle
that I knew to feel more coarse but more detail-attentive than the skin of his cheek, and it was in
the ribbing of his t-shirt, and in his ribs.
when I kissed his mouth that Saturday, we thought quietly together
“we are kissing on the mouth, we are kissing we are kissing”

tonight, when I kiss his knuckle almost imperceptibly,
I cannot hear his thoughts, and mine are “I would sooner be nowhere else”
and “happy birthday” and “I’ll need a haircut in a week or two”