Sunday, February 3, 2008

Blue Shift

Dusty whistle. Who is awake to hear?
It echoes your words.
Glass cold against my cheek,
eyes closed, even the crescent moon is too much.
I kneel at the window as it fades.
It fades.

Your question touches me.
It hovers, acrid smoke tendrils in the dark
expectant, hopeful, open. Time.
Can’t lie at four a.m. can’t lie in the here, after.

I slide to the floor, crawl
heavy gardenia air casting faint shadows on the windowsill
a trail of crumbs behind me
Not answering.

Not answering is also an answer.
Feeling your eyes on my back,
hope fades, more smoke, sighs. You turn, speak to the wall,
"How can you and I be we if you talk to the moon?
And not to me, not ever to me?"
I shiver, feeling your words etched into my flesh.
"How can you and I be we?"

The whistle blows, blue shift to nothing. I rise,
follow the trail of tears back, mercury drops,
climb onto this oasis we’ve created. Close the breech.
Pressed against your back, head on your shoulder, I speak to your neck
to that place where the barber always misses a few strands,
"No lies. Not with you."
Interlocking guardrail lowers around us as you take my hand in yours
pull it to your mouth and kiss my pearl ridged fingerprints,
rough against your teeth.

"Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow and tomorrow, listen for the train with me."

No comments: