We are the kinds of people
who love first
     (maybe against mountains
     landscapes
     mountainscapes)
fingerpick cherries
cherrypick at dawn
paint birds and blues and telephones.

Live in E
die in B
sleep in space.

Write of main characters
     (but dream of antagonists
     on planes
     or fields further upstate).

Frame flowers before they have the chance
     to wilt
stuff clothes into backpacks
sing along with church choirs
     from the alleyway next door.

Imagine biography covers and post-war memorials
look at poetry like a lampshade
leave for fear of holding on
return in hopes of holding
     (set sail for north woods
     carry weight like hurricanes
     steal moments for beggars
     retreat as quickly as god)
stride past roads with cameras.

Stencil where we should sketch
finish with a flourish
lay by waterfronts
lie by stormfronts
take breaths like in movies.

Need like children
dream of signs
     (road signs
     shop signs
     celestial signs
     all are the same, all are the same)
climb heights to speak of majesty
climb down to think of it.

Witness each other's faces like
     smatterings of people in cars.

Arrange alphabetically
depart dramatically
realize with horror
     but abolish without difficulty
watch things fall apart
mix up the pieces
work without ethic.

     (Things we get wrong we
     right but things we get
     right are already wrong.)

Wind up in books we've never read.

Change chords and regret the knowing
     that we can never not know last.

you you you, always you;
standing in the doorway
sleeping on the floor
always questioning.
fingers on faces and hair behind ears,
you do?
always
god, to think
that if some people believe
in things like god,
then what did we believe?
there was nothing left
the closet, the drawers,
like the scrape of teeth on the cusp of a spoon,
you whispered something
raspy from the cigarette
sleep will come.

night
shrug off flannel coats
     leave them alone with each other
     on the floor
     get reacquainted
night whispers nothing all too sweetly
with its sore throat
down the hall, in the bathroom

now
on a floral sofa slipcover
reading two books with one light
     allegretto
night expects rain to peek in
barely humming nocturnes
barely ambient

barely
burying faces in crooks of knee
     dips of side
     curvature of neck
night relaxes
contentedly fallow
chilled
closer

And this is desperation
it is muttering to a windowshade and dreaming
     "always" "always" always
it is looking without seeing
     when every side street and roadside looks like
          the devil's territory
it is what you sound like when you speak
     all your sentences backwards
it is listening to sad songs on airplanes
     and pretending like nothing has ever changed before
it is staring at varicose veins
     like vandals
          underwater
it is building shelves for every little thing
     so every bigger thing goes not astray
it is becoming a martyr
     for the morningdew chills
it is watching as skyscrapers blur