it comes in late, at the witching hour,
at the time reserved for drunks waking up
and losing sleep,  the road outside slower
and the light from the street lamps just enough
to slant the shadows of the shuffling
raccoons that scavenge what has not been picked
already in the busy afternoon,
it comes in strange and strong, it comes in thick
as hoarded ink that must be spent before
it's wasted, dry as a salvaged headstone
from the old yard give way to new pasture,
roses fusing, vining out ancient bones
as i--awake now--wrestle with the fear
of reckless words i hesitate to share.

Your husband called again,
While we were making love again,
This time in my dream.
The room was showing light already,
Cats perched on the chest of drawers
Like vultures but expecting--
Insisting upon--
My resurrection,
While a little foggy
I'm wondering whose fault
This is.
I can't be responsible
For everything,
So next time--
I'm asking in advance--
Please turn off your phone.

Memory, sweet Lorraine, has us
On her tongue straight up, your salty
Lips commanding the pleather couch
As Marie tasted, like yourself,
Delights between your churchly vows,
Bacchus teaching us, twice born, how
Gods know love is made, immortal
Dance from dusk till dawn, forgetting

She had fought with Dan and you had
Visitation scheduled with your
Prisoned man, forgetting all I
Ever knew of what we were and
Why we should be elsewhere soon.
Come, I'd like more exploration.

some questions don't have answers
a hole too big to fill
words placed carefully in the abyss
the love in an old portrait
barely faded, black and white,
from a one-room school
the need to be needed
the astonishment
of desire

What's worth remembering
Is hard to say,
Words being less than innocent,
Harder to  avoid than
Disappointment
Or the boneyard
And seldom adequate,
Even when arranged
Carefully,
Like a fresh cut spray
On the remains
Of what was once
Alive.

I chose a place you might find me,
Settled in and opened a road
Without making it too easy
Traveled,  waiting like some misplaced
Monk, who hasn't vowed to give up
Anything, knowing it would all be gone
In the devil's time and we'd sure
Have less to show for it all than
A preacher's feast on Sunday when
The prodigal daughter needed
A rededication and spoke
Her mind instead, saying this place
Could be Calvary, you know it
Maybe is.  I wouldn't be shocked.

If I were the man in my dreams,
Your feet would be back on my floor,
Or up in the air once again,
With nothing much said for an hour.
Such truth in the night is released
That morning seems all but sincere,
Your absence like abstinence preached--
A sermon I don't wish to hear.
Long afternoon offers its legs,
And shadows of telephone poles,
That slant like a man of ripe age.
Forgive me my various goals--
Your pleasure was always the plan,
The dream of a wide awake man.