Already

The airlock wouldn’t open or it wouldn’t
close. We were in it or we were not. We were
dead or alive when you lifted the lid. We
then foraged, we delayed, return so
desirable it was a weight we shunned.
Tinderbox, bracelet, armoire. So much
forgetting that afternoon, the swing, the small birds,
smoke from the trash barrel, my writing. Now where
do you go when you know I know, when
everything is already enough too much.

 

 

 

 

Slip

the sky thick with crows and then
trees ripe with them—not a day
for beginnings or endings or
brushing up against your heart’s
fleshy O-ring and plans for flight

mulberries thick on the ground
a spindly persimmon tree–fruit
mostly seeds, flesh best when
on the verge of putrefaction
how things were ready when they fell
that was how you learned
the meaning of time passing

someone might recall every color
and heartbeat in a distant day
as if recollection were true, as if
something numinous could emerge
from a paste of surmised details,
feelings dressed up as solid things
the locular all locked up, as if
one could get past glassy surfaces
reflecting only everything
that cannot get inside

you slip away from living so much
you forget how the day has
its different times and moods
how the mere sound of a human voice
conjures things words only leave spaces for