He inhaled

He inhaled the scent, still fresh on his pillow

Studied his nude body's silhouette shadow on a pale wall

Few would ever know the ease of his labors—the exhaustion of his heart.

He inhaled again, imagining he'd also vanish, as he blew the candle out

Getting up was easy enough

Getting up was easy enough
until I realized I had to move on.

I'd go,
stopping only to mark the miles
with words scribbled with a naked fingertip on
dusty windowpanes, wondering
where everyone else went when they moved on.

Then without realizing it, late
as usual and completely unawares,
I arrived.

Dubious eyes are at us here

Dubious eyes are at us here
afraid of the dark, or the end

of the party that wandered away
to the next place; searching

like all the others.

Anything is better than nothing,
they nod in agreement,
pretending to move to the music.

It's easier to walk away alone, but
I take your hand, and you hold on

as I lead you to where you'll sleep tonight.

The city is overtaken by a soothing notion. It falls,

The city is overtaken by a soothing notion. It falls, 

like you, 

into dreams through which he wanders

among austere columns supporting highways 

high above him; concrete & steel temples

in which he alone worships

at this hour.

In the silence he believes

he hears the gentle tones of your voice. Then again

as he watches a car's red lights vanish into the distance

a moment before he turns the key.

His bag slips into an indifferent bundle

in the dark and with his hand poised over the electric switch

everything becomes clear. 

I can't lie anymore

In the dark the ticking of a clock on the wall

is amplified by each

successive

second

Phone Call

You heard the familiar ring
that seemed to announce his call,

closed your eyes when you heard his voice
speaking words from
love poems that were never written

A cadence with pauses
as natural as the the silent moments
between the rhythm of a beating heart,

Verses of the freest kind

In which everything
meant I love you I
love you I love
you I love you I love you
I love
you I love you,

as it always has.

Your hands held a cup filled
with warm sweet coffee,

and then in one sip
you drank the afternoon itself.

Your kitchen is still life

Your kitchen is still life,
and you stand in it, chewing
a piece of carrot, and smiling

because this is where I thanked you
for having me, and this is where
you replied that you hadn't yet.

* * *

In the morning, before I go out to change
the world, you take a golden apple,
and place it in my hand.

The sounds of rushing cars are rare

The sounds of rushing cars are rare
here as the moonlight shines on me.

Desire's patient knocking at the rickety door
of my heart keeps me awake.

When you asked tonight at our table, in the restaurant,
if I wanted anything else, I lied

and focused instead on the rain outside.

The umbrella created a private sky
under which we walked until

the night became silent, and the train
pulled us apart.

Like a glass of water held by an uncertain hand

Like a glass of water held by an uncertain hand
you contained it

that evening as we walked
along the lake and then among the giants
you were quieter.

Your gait was heavy with- perhaps regret, or
exhaustion from the labor of decision

I heard only the sounds of waves,
the pulse of the city, and the language
of your body muttering to itself,

"I must. I will."

When we sat under the terribly cheerful
white fluorescent light,
Hands folded on an inappropriately
bright orange table

you finally revealed it
with a strength I had felt each time
you'd touched me.

I held on to the all the details
in those sad moments;

Black coffee in a cup
Your hand on a napkin, and outside,
Through the windows, darkness.

You read between the lines

You read between the lines
or around them

without a care without
glancing at the clock, you get up
and go.

Words become sounds
no one will hear,
on these brightly lit streets.

You stop to write
on a dusty windowpane with a finger
and walk on

The air shudders behind you

but when you turn, you see only
your shadow on a red brick wall.

I know you are the one

I know you are the one
because it was written on your palms

in ink which left imprints on
my body last night

and because your kisses were like
two red rose petals softly

caressing my skin, softly speaking
telling me what I never knew;

Desire is a need
over which our bodies have control.

Small green apples, or pears
your two eyes wet with something
like love or happiness,

but real happiness

because we do not need
anyone else for that

not even each other.

In the soft light of the streetlamp

In the soft light of the streetlamp
which holds a magic it has retained since
the first night

when in that amber light
I beheld your face for
the first time

I stand where no one knows me by name,
and no one desires to know me.

Memories are carried into the darkness

by the smoke of the cigarette that tilts
between my fingers at a 90° angle of elegant mathematics.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero,

but it will never be so cold
or cold enough

to keep me from traveling to that place,
where you’ll never again wait for me

under the soft light.

OR

On my corner
the amber of light
from the streetlamp

solid as desire:
the first night I saw you
under it.

I stand beneath the concrete sky—
no one desires to know me there.

Frosted fingers, yes, and the temperature
is negative, yes, or zero:

new thoughts carried into the light
by the smoke from the cigarette that tilts

between my fingers at a 90-degree angle:
nothing is so elegant as its mathematics.

Light travels
the speed of desire
to the corner

where you’ll
never again wait for me
in its soft amber tent.

In a small white box

In a small white box,
inside blue envelopes
that are never opened,
he keeps his memories.

On his table burns a yellow candle,
and in his hand is a black pen,
with which he writes a name
over and over.

He never sleeps
when everyone else sleeps,
although the fear of nightmares
is long gone.

He doesn't dream at all anymore
because all his actions have purpose

and he does not wish for things
he cannot have.

When he wakes up
he's happy.

Each day is like a friend

Each day is like a friend
with the most perfectly kept secret

ready to tell it at any moment,
or when you'd least expect it.

She revealed it to me
as I stepped out this morning,
and as my warmth strained to become cold,
like the air outside my door.

You never really know, no matter how much you plan.

It was the best surprise of all;

a bright red sunrise morning sky,
a shimmering city, and a moment
of pure beauty.

I have no eyes anymore and as usual

I have no eyes anymore and as usual
I step out on my own. I believe I can still see colors

and faceless strangers like Petals
on a wet black bough

I see the red red
red of a leaf
on a tree, hanging, dying,

Man's conscience is the best
mnemonic device.

Sleight of hand, Blink
of an eye, Piece
of half-eaten cake...

You didn't suffer, didn't even
know.

The blood was smeared all over me
that evening, and your empty space
expanded, surrounded me
until I realized you weren't dead.

I never saw the sunrise after that.

Now sightless, in this half-life,
I sometimes strain to see my reflection
in a mirror;

The features I almost see, I swear,
are of your face.

In Memoriam or On The Repatriation Of A Dear Friend

We sit down to eat, in the absence of our friend.
This meal becomes more
than just nourishment.

We use the spices he used; they flavor
our lives, and his old apartment, in which we now sit,
is suffused with their aromas.

I look around
and recall the chaotic state it was in,
when he was forced to go. The tiles
on the walls, then gritty and opaque,
now shine, and reflect our faces.

I say to my friend, “It’s almost as if,
he was never here. . . .”

But in the reflections, we see him too,
in the dawn’s early light, eating
a hearty meal, all of us, tired
but not yet ready to rest
our minds, racing, and our bodies,
tense with potential, wanting
to experience more of all this,
not wanting it ever to end. . . .

“That was so much fun,
wasn’t it?”

Neither of us lifts our forks. Our food
begins to get cold. The water in our glasses
is still.

That was so much fun.

We don’t look at each other. Instead, we face
the open door, see the vast sky, the shimmering city
he loved so much.

It’s almost mystical, but we resolve,
in silence, to savor this
delicacy; our lives!

WE’RE ALONE IN EVERY ROOM

It was fun—
after lunch, after you left—
to be alone with the cosmos,
the porcelain, the prints,
& dusk coming on:

I had gone to the Asian exhibit—
the small dark room w/the pillars—
my favorite spot in the whole world.

We’re alone in every room
with the struggle to abide.

We always leave
another footprint
even after taking the last step.

Did you understand
your cup of tea—
hold on—it won’t be long:
the world itself
is lovely: say it.

Say it.

Did you see it coming.
What did you do
when you saw it coming.

Step outside to believe—
if it wasn’t so easy,
nobody would do it.

By Richard Fox

Lies, by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Telling lies to the young is wrong.
Proving to them that lies are true is wrong.
Telling them that God's in his heaven
and all's well with the world is wrong.
The young know what you mean. The young are people.
Tell them the difficulties can't be counted,
and let them see not only what will be
but see with clarity these present times.
Say obstacles exist they must encounter
Sorrow happens, hardship happens.
The hell with it. Who never knew
the price of happiness will not be happy.
Forgive no error you recognize,
it will repeat itself, increase,
and afterwards our pupils
will not forgive in us what we forgave.

The Promotion, by James Tate

I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer,
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I loose a sheep. The farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. And his children
played with me, when they weren't in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer bought me into
the house to live with the family. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn't get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by my window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. The human wolves don't even see me.
They fear me not.

To Myself, by W.S. Merwin

Even when I forget you
I go on looking for you
I believe I would know you
I keep remembering you
sometimes long ago but then
other times I am sure you
were here for a moment before
and the air is still alive
around where you were and I
think then I can recognize
you who are always the same
who pretend to be time but
you are not time and who speak
in the words but you are not
what they say you who are not
lost when I do not find you

To Waiting, by W.S. Merwin

You spend so much of your time
expecting to become
someone else
always someone
who will be different
someone to whom a moment
whatever it may be
at last has come
and who has been
met and transformed
into no longer being you
and so has forgotten you

meanwhile in your life
you hardly notice
the world around you
lights changing
sirens dying along the buildings
your eyes intent
on a sight you do not see yet
not yet there
as long as you
are only yourself

with whom as you
recall you were
never happy
to be left alone for long