Because it all just breaks apart, and the pieces scatter and
rearrange without much fanfare or notice.
Because you can’t and don’t remember the step that kicked up
dust and left this planet—you’d give up even more now.
Because the body itself—the heart’s
not dead but deeper, wrapped up in curtains, a different color,
among the railings and the pigeons, the rooftops and walls—
for all you know it’s a question of bread
Because even love
returns. The city’s all brightness
and shadow, deckle-edged, bluer than air—there’s no help
anywhere—you no longer know how to listen.
And love says, love—midnight to midnight,
already ablaze. And the boulevard—wide-open. And the well-
stocked crowdless market, and a lone taxi blears.
Even happiness—the way anger’s come back to roost again.
And joy, though joy’s not in the ear or the eye. On this walk
the gulls hover offshore and the islands are speckled with fire.
Even love, even because.
On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more
than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks
to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet,
as I drop a postcard in the mailbox and watch it
throb like a blue heart in the dark. Your eyes
are so green – one of your parents must be
part traffic light. We’re both self-centered,
but the world revolves around us at the same speed.
Last night I tossed and turned inside a thundercloud.
This morning my sheets were covered in pollen.
I remember the long division of Saturday’s
pomegranate, a thousand nebulae in your hair,
as soldiers marched by, dragging big army bags
filled with water balloons, and we passed a lit match,
back and forth, between our lips, under an oak tree
I had absolutely nothing to do with.