mid-march sun kisses your shoulderblade but then it rains
and your equilibrium is temporary it collapses somewhere out of frame
and the voice that has been everything says you’re doing something wrong before it dissipates
and different palms on your back say you’ll be okay but I know it hurts
and he almost understands
and they almost understand
almost.

mid-march sun used to drop in every once in a while but now
the ten day forecast says rain rain rain and now
there's no one to blame
and no one to tell.

the evening when you have-to-realize
your voice is steady soft but your eyes give you up and
he holds you closer (just because) because you let him, now
nothing-to-lose while you lose him, now
and your eyes give you up while your voice--
This Is What You Wanted.
and he touches your jawbone featherlight with strong hands
instead of talking

the last days the most beautiful, per always
and tears on call for a drop of coffee on your jeans
or nothing
or writing in your datebook with the pen that was his--
This Is What You Wanted
the room to move your elbows,
and level ground

and the scratch of his chin on your forehead for
not-quite-the-last-time
and remembering before you memorized his cheekbones
and fingertips and the song he didn’t know would make you sad
remembering when you shook hands and talked television, siblings, weather

you wake up for the new dawn and the
It Will Be Okay, but first, it won’t

in four, three, two

one

pretty face bright glowing-- colorado freckles frozen
artificial sun, perma-smile.
lake michigan eyes.

        his white teeth and rosy cheeks
        a little taller, hands on her waist


in front of a church. on his bed. on her bed. on the dock. holding half-empty green bottles.
                                                    ever balanced
                                                             never crying




except in the hallway when everyone else is sleeping.

                       i don't want to be ******* lied to, she said

and he breathed out heavy, shook his head
it wasn't a photograph night.

do you remember walter?
do you remember, walter?

boats and boats and boats dotting your ivy shoreline
he stood there like a statue like a king
remember?

do you remember, walter, how we said we'd fight the world so we'd be free?

the white balance on your entire world was turned up.
the volume on your entire world was turned up.
the contrast on your entire world was turned up.

do you remember walter?
i remember, walter.

*i bet you're fat and married and you're always home in bed by half past eight

greece, even, in the nostalgia decades sometimes wore american clothes
but she spoke no english, was starkly unilingual
save for the french "sillage". she was the reason they teach you safe ***
and abstinence: the reason they couldn't trust you
she dressed more american than everybody else; she was a beautiful cockeyed anachronism

your jimmy stewart baby blues on her, brandy-sanctioned
better than the everyman. and a hallucination of your stand-in therapist
asking you "why should there be guilt if there is pleasure?"
and you replying horselike/illogical "it is the unconscious fantasy that i can be torn apart"

insipid, her blue eyes her blue dresses. the only-ness of her. her laugh like oleander.
she was Strong and Independent and she Didn't Need Me, but she had me anyway, for a minute.
i am cross-legged on the ugly wool blanket we made love under first. the first of many but empty.
i am cross-legged and my fingers restless, invisible piano keys trilling to the wee hours. many but empty.
the skin of my index finger bitten raw, the skin of my lower lip bitten raw.
the pretension of her jabs at pretension. her manufactured offbeat passion. her cat, her moleskin notebook.
ordinary, but only. insipid but aquamarine and clear as bells. she Didn't Need Me.
the first of many. and empty.

grand(iose) gestures but constant assurance
Our Ceiling Is Low. Our Days Are Numbered,
let’s not do this anymore.
is that what we decided
let’s not do this anymore?
I’m drunk you’re drunk
Okay

grand(iose) gestures and lights out
and darkness fumbling and
I Don’t Know What I’m Doing
we’ll figure it out
and how low is our ceiling, did you say?
what number are we at now
three seven nine let’s say ten
let’s not do this anymore
just one more minute
Okay

grand(iose) gestures and breathing and
quiet and finally
and sleep-sweat and the wee hours
waning
let’s not do this anymore.
okay
Okay