Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Atmospheric Pressure

The cinema and the lights,
the arm around the waist
caught from a barroom midnight.
Shrugged off, “As if that’s what you say?”
quite ashamed like you’re seeing me naked
and I am and I say you name.
There are worse things than hormones raging.
I got in a car accident twice,
one of which was fatal nearly.

Waking up and you’re up
and my shoes are not my socks.
I forgot I’m wearing long underwear
and my other underwear is somewhere
and you’re making me coffee
set to drip as drops begin dissipating.
An impacted result tuned
to intimacy issues peeling.
A church bell announces bad news always.

Work your shoulder blades
(a galaxy of white giants exploding)
into constellations too close
to resemble the shapes
for which they are named.
And in the stratosphere of your car
(still driving us somewhere)
I’m not sure if this is that neighborhood,
I can’t remember names anymore,
I felt this but you looked different.
It was you in the dream
except it wasn’t.

These democratic notions,
my fingers on your spine,
imagine grains of grain
conjoining rock-particle wet
droplets heralded
by an early-spring rain.