You As Invitation
Don't wash a wound with blood
Rumi says, and so, contra Rumi
I hoped we'd make it to that June wedding
RSVP on the table and
often I wake up as you're shambling
away, loping, disheveled, we're
a bit silly you said; no, I said
we're grounded; flat on our faces
on the ground, you said, is that
what you mean? I was some lower
phylum, reaction only
although I looked more like a fender
bender or a rotten banana. They
were all more alive than we were. You
knew that June wedding was
another thing we'd never make.
Like the tomorrow restaurant
with tables in the water, I
harbored certain fantasies, so
that day in June I stopped by Ben's
you were there; one of your
absurd shirts, playing poker
with polka dots? Couldn't find
my suit, you said. Ha. What suit?
Rain on tin. Road swirling brown.
Spokes crushed and I knew
people must fight for what they've loved
and believed in even when it looks hopeless.
You As International Transfer Lounge
Where we are to wait, and after
we can tell you nothing except to wait
and like I said about one of your shirts:
now that’s announcing: I’m a shirt…. That one
blue not red, hibiscus but things blur into
twenty-four hours with my bag as a pillow
and nothing to do or be. Drifting
fishing poles, popsicle tongues
and a three-ball knitting wool-pyramid parade
with fields of swaddled humpbacks
and beyond the fall glass
lights on the runway like butter like
on the stairs waiting for you
the alley a waterfall: cascade
you wouldn’t even take my hand.
But I had plans for when I got you inside.
I was prepared to clean your pants.
But then you started the dts.