After Traveling

I don’t dream any longer of kneeling in the black dirt by the gateway,
Of waking with grimy hands and dust in my beard,
Of new lilies, new petunias, of smelling dead earthworms,
Of turning over small piles of seeds under the ground,
Wedging bulbs between hard white roots. I dream
Of these street lights, the halogen moving in and out of my eyes,
Haloes that flash and meld before I can see the angel slipping
Into a roadside shack with his wings folded back.

Driving at night, all landscape becomes one
Plain strung with unreliable starlight.
I drove this way to forget that I had a direction,
A destination, to imagine it was all one light glinting, suspended
Above roads I would never map, homes and people I had forgotten.

You, at that dining room table so dimly set with blue velvet
(remembering the first time we ate at that table
How nervous you were, cutting stems so short
The flowers bobbed in their vases, lost)
Eating persimmons cut into quarters with cold fingers,
Puckered mouth and all unmoved dust incandescent.

The memories no longer reach into my spine with electric fingers
To tell me that you breathe, that I no longer live in a home spent
In constant conference with unruly children that tip over the vases,
Make you clean milk from the floor on your knees—you thank them—
close to the ground, you thank them.

Instead, a girl that pulled back the coverlet the same way you did
Without wrinkling the sheets. But she smiled with whiter teeth,
Not your shine and sweat. With my hand on her jaw,
I pretended this was comfort, that she was alive as I was.

Strange to discover that any two bodies will fit together,
That any coverlet will pull back so smoothly
To reveal these pale sheets.

Even here, wet forsythia drips into the highway,
Yellow leaves cling together, translucent in rain—
Spring, despite the chill.

Failed meals

1.
An egg in a pan
Blackens and stinks.

The spaghetti is hard.

And you are sitting in a dirty room
Surrounded by things that were never yours.

2.
In the castle, Don Carlos and Rodrigo share
A red flank of venison, sheared of the fat.

They dig their fingers into it.

In Flanders, they are burning the fields,
And the screams of the cattle
Are like the knives sliding on the plate.

3.
The cardboard threads
Of packaged noodles
Plump with lukewarm tap water
Until they are almost elastic.

Buoyed in the orange water
They drift like dead jellyfish –

Behind you, the uneven drone
Of the empty white refrigerator.

4..
Sliced potato in a ring
Turning brown, smoking.

Red onions in a bowl.

Glass Dream

In the dream – it was a dream – we had glass faces
And our mouths were cracked, they only made glass noises –
Like birdsong sent through a dark funnel, shrilling between us.
It was a dream – how do you know? – because our hands were limp
And could not hold anything with their still fingers,
Because when we moved them they only floated, helium-bound
Drifting upwards into the air towards the one window.
When we put our mouths together, the kiss hurt me,
So the dream changed – but why did it hurt? –  Your mouth was cold. Your mouth was hard.
The air was dry in my chest and I had no lungs
But what I tasted was soot and lavender.
The sky was still and cloudless as if snow
Had just fallen on the earth and covered it white –
But the heat rose from the pavement in wavering streams.
Did I see you there? No. You were absent,
Dancing alone in a gazebo on a wooded bank, arms up.
The dirt fell apart into aggregate clumps and signs
And the breeze picked me up and carried me over the city
And I saw you moving, your eyes were closed but I had no tongue
And did not call to you. I saw the green of your grove
Like a bright blot against the gray land.
What did it feel like to fly?
I never feel anything in a dream. But in the morning
I remember the broken bits in a wash.
I didn’t know I was dreaming until I woke,
And then the red light behind my eyes gave way
To the whiteness of the sun on the books
And my own hands wrapped around my own body.  

Stars

Why are there more stars everywhere but           here
What have you to do with this           absence

Ripped places           as you get closer to them you can see the light
is not escaping         It has pried open as much space as it needs for flight      



The little things are of no object           Their eyes are like stars
in that stars most closely resemble bright holes in the sky.

          In some places of the world
          the stars are so dense            
  
                                            that late in the night
                                                       the sky is almost white --