Right foot creeps

out of the blanket, stirs

dog enough to push

the pillow.

 

Your hip curves—I can’t tell—

through or just against morning

sun that comes & goes

(& what does that

remind us of?).

It makes, I see & love,

a tender dent.

 

Not sofa nor my vision will ever

be the same.

 

Newspaper falls away from you

in uniform cascades of intellect

to you, emotion for me.

I fear them marching, terraced, across the carpet—

as you discard one section then the next—

& blanketing my feet.

 

Dove darts on then off balcony rail.

Snorts—doves not only coo—at empty feeder.

Worse than a month now.

 

Your left foot leaves the blanket.

you listen to your pain
i am deafened by mine
we see each other's mouth move
wonder at no sound
i lift my hand to touch your face
you mistake i wave goodbye
you turn and skitter--
pebble across steelsmooth water

i think your hand must brush
rustfleck from your eye
i watch your shape dissolve
a smokey silhouette to one
with dusk and so no more

a gasp of breath escapes the skin
across my chest
and pulls my pain from head
to heart

i am running
after you
to the point
where your shadow
disappeared

i am bringing
everything i know
to reassemble vapor

and that is nothing

while i slept somefuck
uprooted the Tree. i didn't
see it but i know they grabbed it
in some kinda hammerlock,
around its trunk,just below the lowest
limbs, squeezed it like hell i'm guessing
against their chest. then as taught
in every health and safety class
every where and else
used their legs to leverage the giant pull.
i imagine Tree's bark scraping skin
from their chest and inner arms as they leaned
into the theft as their eyes bulged
and neckveins threatened bursting, as they refused
to let go until they heard the giant
suck then sigh as earth let go
Her grasp and Tree's roots pulled free.
They must have stagger'd back, the Tree
and them dancing drunk: joined weights
of victim and vandal.

i awoke to this gaping, black earth hole.
i'm looking for an acorn.

running round less sane than daylight makes me
stand on one foot, lift the other to the lamp
arch my back and feel the fall begin
fletch for balance 
enjoy its loss and wonder how bad
will hurt the bang
if and when i land
and then begin to wonder
if maybe landing's not in the cards
maybe floating either away
or just off the surface but never leaving
the neighborood is what it means
and, oh, that's mean when sometimes
escape is the best, by far the best, of all
alternatives.

but surfaces are known
therefore offer substance
or something like
a place to land when hovering
wears weary
and feeling rocks beneath my heels
seems stable.

i'm ironing.
khaki older than you
wrinkles out, each steam
sweep of my hand.

& each steam sweep
wipes & swipes away
tears i meant to cry
between your breasts
for you to blow away
as springnight clouds.

i wanted you
to teach me waste of worry.

you found a better mine,
a better claim to stake
than me.
i don't argue, now i know
you're not just checking realtors' recs
but moved in mind
all ready
all right
by me.

the hurt's not less. projection
that it sets like sun
makes it even better.

ironing board rocks
against my thighs then sags.
i press too hard on wrinkles
older than you.

khaki's creases almost shine.
wrinkles run, steam whizzles
& rises through my hand, forms drops
inside my palm:
tears i don't blow away.