POEMS
from Inkblot and Altar
Habits of Lovers and Bats
Just Like a Suitcase
The space between
So That We May Feast Habits of Lovers and Bats
Their love is something remarkable
like Texas, bigger than she dare consider.
But its bridges are too near the water
to make jumping dramatic. So she won’t.
And he won’t. Though he hangs on
to the idea of her like a guardrail
where he lingers, poised above the river.
It is like this they go together
to watch the emergence of bats.
They cling to the underside of possibility.
As dusk approaches, so begins
the ritual of incredible flight.
A million wings extend
toward darkness; the great plume
trails away in last light.
She unpacks herself
in his room and bed
and mouth
which surrenders
no declaration apart from:
I have strong arms.
And she supposes he does.
But she can hardly snap shut
and be carried
when he does not understand
what he is holding.
Texarkana and El Paso. Lines
on the road. Telephone poles. The space
between my arrival and your departure.
Your upper and lower lip. This cigarette
and my next drag. The space
between headboard and footboard. Sheet
and skin. Sigh and sleep. A ring
and its finger. Dialtone
and your answer.
My foot and the brake.
The bridge and river.
Your last kiss and this:
Our bodies fail us
so many ways it will
be a pleasure to leave.
But having said more
than one goodbye
I wish for each
her own (or his)
assumption--
tethered, please, not
to some undying
disease--so
loves and lovers
might always go on
with the possibility
of return.