The Edge

Your memory, a cliff I dangle from, in inky and imprudent flashes.  

Your voice, an echo of an echo, sonorous and lilting. 

Pale beauty-

a blown out match to my skin, when you cared enough to tease. 

“Look,”

You’d say, 

“I just want to talk to you.” 

                   Dragging all the benevolence in the room to a breathless halt. 

Someone got the wind knocked out of them, 

but who’s to say who. 

 

I gave in, the same myopic acquiescence as always. When ‘love’ is a shadow of a shadow. I think it’s called “hope.”

What an ending.

It’s a picture of a picture, that I found lazy with dust, in a garage that was not my own. 

 

The memory so ashen, it’s cursory. So infinitesimal that it’s not a memory at all, it’s a shimmer of a shimmer, I think they call it “a feeling.” 

Like, 

An arm enervating out the passenger window, floating through the haze of sunset on an empty highway. Listening to the last song of your favorite album. The one that was played raw in my presence. 

We didn’t make it there. 

The way we didn’t go swimming. The pool was always dirty. 

We’d just sit on the edge and dream. 

Just like the way we never found a way to say,

 “I’m sorry, but it’s better this way.”

The way I never learned to play chess and you never learned to play guitar.

Instead, 

In long silence —

 We just sit at the edge and dream. 

How does something feel like nothing for so long, 

Then,

 The blind tongue tie of everything. 

NOT EXACTLY

I dreamt of you last night.                                                                                                                                                                  No, never mind. I dreamt of us. There you were. It was you, 

so alive in the mere pain of living; 

eternally Dionysian.

You were there, so was your mother.

But it wasnt your mother, not exactly. 

and we were in your house. 

But it wasn't your house, 

not exactly. 

I know that house on that street, in that 

same heartbreak hometown;

but you no longer live there    

and neither does your mother. 

These memories are like dreams; 

you know who was there, and you 

know where it was, but all the other details, 

are not details at all; 

                           they are feelings like phantom hands, 

                           sliding up the spine of what hope is left 

                           after adulthood has taken the lion’s share. 

It’s brutal, as it is beautiful. 

The way we shaped one another 

all those years ago, 

and now we are those shapes, 

like little houses with roofs,

living in the walls. 

Like, your house

Like, my house, 

but not really our house. 

Not exactly. 

RAINY PARADES

I won’t do it; apologize and shake the limbs loose.       Appropriate a decade, a rare seduction of misuse.                                                                                           Hinting eras into the ether, beautiful fools of resolve.     Asking but not waiting; In love but not involved. 

I'm not ashamed, NOPE. 

   Not for the pile of pearls I’ve dropped on your lap.

      And now that I’m finally pouring out my professions, (vivid champagne fountains)

       Like the ones at your grand Gatsby parties. 

But, how could you, now that you no longer drink? (ALIVE)

    In the comedown, 

a storm of love like this, 

can’t keep you dry. 

Second Law

It’s more like a spy film 

   And less like a western, 

But it still kicks dust in my eyes.

When the view is an exit wound, 

I’m happy to be the bad guy. 

But, Oh Mercy!…. I promise I’m safe;

I emptied my mouth 

     of bitten bullets and quiet restraint. 

Oh! but still, you forget yourself. 

You forget yourself. 

Oh! but still, you honor me, 

Like a word from Deuteronomy. 

Remember, strange dreamer,

Everything is just a feeling. 

Oh Mercy!  Im dreaming….

In pearls and hope 

Live wires and letting go-

I know how it looks, but

I’m just trying to wish myself home.  

TAGENT LINE (Batavia St.)

                        

There’s no way for me

To tell you, 

    I’m disappointed in your future — 

Where is that holy rolling soul, 

Born in fury and lived in lightning- 

And what have you done with all the cruel cruel electricity? 

Our hometown visits, wets my palette 

with maudlin tears, 

I drive down that old street, put a cigarette out on twenty years. 

I’d love you, if you’d only let me.  I’d love you so hard and deep, 

perfume my hair and wash your feet. 

It’s a champagne daydream 

heart attack honey bees

An impossible possibility….

I can only hope, 

Romancer, in another inky multiverse, 

We are together, 

alive in love and awake in forgiveness. 

There was a circle between us

And we were two points of a kind

But finally, in it, 

we found a straight line. 

Remember 21?

Storm clouds and the good amnesia, 

that time you remembered.

               Dooms of love; a sort of surrender. 

We carried Rome in our pockets.

We put forks into sockets, letting our hair go wild. 

Those years of slender, 

     silver streamers and colored confetti, 

Let’s get to the part already

    where you shaved my legs,
                   surgeon steady - - -

I came down with heart break
like an ear ache, 

But I never went swimming. 

MAINLINE

I am the fractional crystals, growing around 

the winds of dirty lingerie. 

I know you know

this. 

This is the blackened eel, wrapping her 

scales around the dirty sea

that was once clean,

it was that thing, 

that met the river 

that lived tremendously

between these memories, 

like warmed by the sun

mountain ranges, 

like licked by the rain

green golden gardens- before, 

we were gutted, 

like that rotten fish. 

do you dream, still, 

of the physics of my breasts, 

the fundamentals of my breath, 

the torments of our breadth? 

This is, 

mainlining agony.

You gave me pain,
the way pain is the present. 

Where Were You When I Loved You?

I asked for a nurse, 

as I was bleeding out 

into the universe. 

All the magic had left the world, 

and there you stood. 

We were outside and 

you asked to see my eyes. 

It had been a decade, 

give or take. 

You said you were leaving in December, 

somewhere south to find your mother. 

Where were you when I loved you? 

Maybe I didn't love you more than you loved me, 

Im just blessed with the catastophy, 

of a better memory. 

I hope you see me, disappearing into the scenery 

of horses and summary. 

The Way It Is, Is the Way It Should Be

One hand waves over the years; levitating in suspension, 

like a magician setting up the prestige-

the other hand cups my brow like a visor, 

preemptive, 

    the way Im always outrunning this disease. 

I know you regret it, the way you left, 

but these appraisals are checking the windows, 

only after the theft.  

Clear Waters

I am the anchor, 

that brings down the light of the day.

I am the savior, 

who awaits congratulatory pay. 

I am the victim, 

happily forcing the hand into blame. 

I am all of this, 

with out report, 

because we hide the wells of ourselves, 

because we contort, 

because we can not, will not

control the beast that is our 

unmanageable -

ungovernable -

untamable -

and most importantly-

unloveable love.

The water is clear, 

I see right through.

I’m only alive, 

when Im drowning in you. 

I Knocked So Loud

I knocked so loud,
it threw our backs out.

It seemed like years before you answered the door, 

Carrying replies like butter knives; 

Dull but nevertheless, unkind.

Come in, you eventually said. 

I stood outside in the cold.

You know me, I need more than one

polite invite. 

Come into me, you said,
Im ready to receive.  

Come into the room

where the piano goes untouched-

Showing me your new paintings,
 I didn't say much, but I meant, “WOW”

I want to be her this afternoon; 

Nude and owned by you.

You know me, I need to be drawn

out. 

Do not keep me inside for too long, 

I will walk away with the longest legs, 

they won’t even touch the ground of your shade. 

You will have to turn inside out, 

You will have to force me down, 

You will have to shoot me up like an arrow,
  outside of yourself. 

The Place That Only Sand Knows

         It was the tail end of summer, the Indian part.  My father and I stood at the end of the Hermosa Beach Pier. There was a lull in the conversation and he breathed deeply. I could sense the motions of the fisherman nearby had caught his attention. My father has beautiful posture and even more beautiful hands. They move like dancers. He never gets embarrassed. Never. It’s a quality I try to pull out of myself. Like a drowning hand reaching through the surface of the sea, and that hand is somehow attached to me. 

A great yelp arose through the salty air, attracting unwanted attention.  With a tremendous back bend, the fisherman pulled something weighted and resistant up from the water. It was a sting ray. It flopped its meaty wings and gasped from a hole I didn't know they possess. My father and I watched the scene observantly. But just as I thought we would resume our conversation, my father patted me on the shoulder and moved quietly towards the fisherman,

 “Hello Sir, it’s a beautiful day and I would like to buy that sting ray off of you." The fisherman squinted his one eye, like looking through a telescope,  

"No…..I don’t think so. It's my prize."

 The sting ray twitched and gasped again, ghastly I tell you. My father started again, 

"I will give you 50 dollars for that stingray."

 The fisherman stood his ground,

 "I said NO." 

My father, relentless yet measured, pulled out a 100 dollar bill. 

"I will give you this 100 dollar bill right now if you just give me that sting ray." The fisherman pulled back his hat to look at my father. He wrestled in his thoughts and then asked, 

"Why you want this stingray so bad, huh?” 

My father simply said,  "I want to throw it back." 

Without saying another word, the fisherman pulled his knife out of his belt and cleanly sliced off the stingray's tail. 

My father looked down at the tail, put his money back in his pocket and turned around towards me. There was no expression upon his face. It was perfect wisdom. He had done everything he could have done, thus, divorcing himself from the outcome. 

It was not an act of kindness.

It was not an act of devotion. 

It was not an act of impulse. 

It was act of detachment, by trying all one can. I would have had disappointment wash over me, deep down into my toes. Up and around them, in-between them, the places that only sand knows. 

My father has a name. But I wont bore you with such things. My father came from a place. He likes stories, too. He likes big fish in small ponds. He likes short jokes and long laughs. He loves to fish but says now he doesn't like to kill anything anymore. So, he has fishing rods stacked against the corner of his closet. He says they are in perfect condition but doesn't want to sell them. "Maybe someday" he says. Selling them or fishing, Im not sure what he is referring to. 

       My father calls everything, "cute." In his accent it sounds more cute than you can imagine. He laughs with his guts and smiles with all teeth. But I couldn't tell you what he would say about me. Because I know my father much less than he knows me. Many times before he has said this personal resounding truth,
 “I love you, my beautiful daughter, much more than you will ever love me. All parents love their children more than their children love them. It is the way of the parent.” I still don’t know exactly what he means, and I may never know, because I may never be a mother. But I have all the love I need, sometimes my love splits the seams. Sometimes my love burrows into so many caves and decides to seasonally sleep. Those are the times that I search for romance and friendship, but mostly for the thing that intersects the two and those times, I am a bottomless abyss of need.

     In a moment over breakfast, my pregnant sister gets up to use the restroom, my father kept his sunglasses on all through out the meal. I mention something about children and he turned to me, whipped off his glasses to look me in the eyes. The revealing showed a rash around his eyes. I’ve never seen him in any form of ill health. He doesn’t mention his rash, he only says, 
“You’re too special to have children. You’re like me, you need to be shaping the lines of the world.” I laughed a little, mostly because my father is a very funny man, and he is always saying something keen and wry. But then I realized that I wasn’t just like him. He had children and I didn’t. 

“Father, you forget that you are a father.”

 He shakes his head, pats a napkin to his otherwise dry forehead and places his sunglasses back on. 

“No, not really. I didn’t raise any of you. I just came and went as I pleased and had fun with you. That was always my favorite part, anyway.” 

When someone pronounces a truth that should seem shameful, but admits it with not an ounce of apology, it somehow turns the shame on it’s head and you start to see that truth in a different way. It’s like figuring out a card trick, you somehow can’t see how you ever believed the magic. 

It was another goodbye. My father was leaving again for Asia. He is not Asian, he is Persian. Some say Iranian, but he says Persian, like the rug. But Asia is where he lives now. This is the second time in his life he is leaving his home and starting a new life on a new continent and learning a new language, a new way of life. He did this first when he was 19, coming to the states. Now at 70, he is learning Mandarin. He says he listens to recordings of it while he sleeps. I never know when he is joking. 
I ask him what is the difference from being 19 and coming to America and then at 70 moving once again. I ask him honestly, 

“What is different in the weight of those 50 years?” 

He is quiet for a moment, his eyes look shy but his smile looks knowing; 

“Then, I was so full of hope, so full of dreams. I didn’t know what life was yet. Now, I am so full of acceptance. I don’t hope anymore. I just enjoy.” 

 Sometimes I want to thank my father for the intimacy in our relationship, as I know that he doesn’t share these thoughts with anyone else. It makes me feel like we have our own unique universe in that understanding. I expand and contract in the measure of those stars. Marking my height on the wall with pencil. 

I know my father is leaving and I won’t see him for a year, maybe longer. He only comes back to the U.S. now and then and he never extends an invite to his travels. So, I know and I accept that this day is the last day; because anything happens in a year, because every day is the last day.  
     I hand my father his folded shirt while he gracefully conducts a symphony of packing. It's a quiet, late afternoon. The light creeps in like slow creatures trying to get a better look. 

“Do you know when you will be returning to the states?" I ask directly. His face looks stern, but his voice sounds like warm honey,

"All I ever need is completion with all my children. One never knows when one will see another again." He has a way of answering every question but the one you asked. I am proud to say I inherited the quality. 

"Do you miss us when you're gone?" 

I hand him another shirt, it's not folded as nicely this time. 

My father has eyes the color of a lion's mane. Even in the darkness of late afternoon, they shoot arrows of kindness. 

He says with soft authority, 

"Miss is just a feeling that we have assigned ourselves when we don't like our present moment. If you live in this moment you don't want anything else. You don't miss anything."

I ran my hand along my own arm and then I ran it up his arm. I smiled tightly, the one that tries to hold back tears. The one that looks like a tightrope. The one that your words are begging to walk along but never do. 

"Ill miss you too, Dad."

Its not even pink, the rawness is iridescent. The new skin is growing, slowly, beautifully. The memory stretches into something kind eventually. It's quite like new skin growing over a wound, leaving an indelible scar. Revisionism is the beauty of the human mind. 

My father doesn’t write often, but when he does, he signs his letters,

"Always stay in joy, my love.” 

and Im trying for him.

and Im trying for myself. 

and Im trying for us all. 

FUTURE PERFECT

All stardust and not enoughs, 

All tight lips and kicking up dust. 

I still think of you. 

On slow afternoons, 

I like to entertain, 

A life we will never attain.  

Only if we knew, how to give a little past the middle. 

All long shots and lost hope, 

All illusion and enough rope. 

GOD KNOWS HOW (No More)

No more-

None of those,

Sleazy dreams
and red eyes

No more-

Tequila sunrise

No more

Welcome surprise

No more -

None of those,

Riding the wave into the wind

Knowing it will come back around again

No more

Rising and converging

No more

coming up for air 

then submerging

These are still waters- 

bottomless is the well,

this is a dove in mid air, 

and these are stories we tell-

         “Im fine, Thank you.”

When what we want to say is:

‘God has forgotten us. 

 Even though He knows we try;

 He forgot to lend a hand, 

 He forgot to wipe our brow, 

 In the end we will get through it,
         But God knows how.’ 

In the company of misery.

We're talking about the same thing with different names--

It's a long laugh of brevity,
it's a direct road to heredity.

Headless and blameless,
We skip through continuum,
We flip our hair flippantly,
We repeat ourselves, repeatedly.

We draw the wreckage to our breast,
We eat it for breakfast and then get dressed.
But why bother with such pleasantries -
When misery so loves our company?

HEAVEN FORBID

The tiger’s tail, 

which I can’t quite catch. 

That white whale, 

no less heavy hearted

than this wretch. 

Heaven Forbid, 

we find all kinds of hooks, 

in our bottom lips. 

Happiness is a speedy arrow, 

grazing my cheek. 

An unannounced visitor, 

coming and leaving sometime mid-week. 

Heaven forbid, 

she take a load off, 

and stay for some tea.   

When words don’t work, 

the way wounds can’t create, 

Heaven forbid, 

we just give it a break. 

My Kind Of Lovin'

A far off look, 

of diminished returns

   and long held hooks. 

You want me to beg you to stay, 

  beg you to take off your coat, 

beg while I’m down on my knees- 

      a begging that’s bottomless.

      a begging that stings bees.  

And this is the beautiful blow of fantasy, 

the window dressing and half truths, 

of distant brutality. 

It’s a hand up the skirt, 

it’s a head in the oven, 

it’s a heart full of hurt, 

it’s my kind of lovin’. 

The Long Vacation.

The more you give yourself,

       the less you need from others/ 

A good place to be, without too much need. 

Perfect parts, the right recipe. 

As I see the distance widen, 

       I’ll be untethered,
              alone on this island.

THE ENDLESS FOREVER

 Our bodies are pockets where we store the small things, the big things, too. We tuck a love in to the deepest fold, (the endless forever), that’s the love we moved on from. That’s the one that leaves rust. The love with a deep film, a residue, something the color of copper. You feel it in the back of your throat. A dirty penny on your tongue. 

We are adaptable creatures. We can assimilate into loss, out of it, too. But we have those deep pockets. We are spiritual, sensual beings having a material, ordinary experience. And here we are, my love, all waiting in line for the endless forever. 

That’s our kind of love. The exquisite combustion of a short romance and a long memory.  Because our pockets are infinite; longer than any arms can reach, longer than any body could swim back to, longer than this life and the past ones, too.

We had our time, the bitter taste of brevity. The sour slap of eternity- is that space between. Like the blindness of a blackout, like the shock of first light; we feel the separateness, alone but together, and that’s our love- the endless forever. 

LOOKING FORWARD TO IT (Loving Yourself)

With hands tied behind your back, you can’t close doors. You know something is inside and it could be anything. I dream of meeting you there. Your soft skin would turn into sunshine. There is no unnecessary items. There is no sagging weight. There is no heavy belts of regret.
There is only you, benevolence dropping from infinitude. It covers you like the way candlelight softens a bad situation, or a long day.
Honey, you are there; You live in the heart that is the house of my future.
I’ll find you there, one foot in front of the other.
I will recognize you, as the person you grew into.
We are no longer young. We are no longer all knees and abrasions. We are no longer long drives with no destination. We are precision and high cheekbones. We are class that has edges with grit, a little like the French. We have grown into these high hopes; We touch their ceilings. We have grown, the way that the spirit is endless, the way she has no doors, the way she is the door. We have grown. 

We will lay ourselves down. We will tuck ourselves in. We will thank ourselves with our own eyes. And we will wrap our own loving arms around our own loving bodies. 

POOF!

The siren of your hands; 

 two beasts strangling one another-

    a confrontation deprived of my pleasure. 

The untamed things of your lips;

 rockets of proverbials- 

      a haunting I could never kiss.

Our stories slow dancing, 

tracking mud all over the living room floor. 

It’s a distance we couldn’t close--

To sit on our hands and wait, 

        for a future date. 

So, steady is the gaze of such a titan, 

   that in silence recedes from the horizon. 

Not Even In Another Life.

As I lay there, 

barren of clothing, 

just stitches of lingerie lingering; 

he pulled himself off me and 

took me in: his stare a drought

born in front of a body of water. 

His only words, 

"You look like Wonder Woman."

much to my dismay, 

he certainly was not

   Superman. 

Making Your Own Rules.

My loneliness, only comes alive in your presence. You are the finger on the trigger. You are holy but only bigger.
You turn the light on my halfness;
you slide the key on the sly, and come from the inside.


But you've taken to using the word love,
  As another way to keep numb.

REMEMBER WHEN, ALEXIS?

We laughed at bruises. We slept away wednesday afternoons. We fit 3 to a bed. We sunk into the carpet. We apologized to life without saying a word. 

I've watched every year pass by and remember it laced with heavy dose of revisionism. We still have those long legs and short desires. We could just buy bicycles too big for us again and laugh and laugh and get caught, laugh and laugh and stay stuck. It's better this way. I see ya around that place, where the wind gets caught in our stay. 

SHORT ORDER.

A phenomenon is just a matter of opinion

and I don't know why you'd call, 

just so I would talk you out of a bad decision. 

I make bad decisions, with utter precision. 

I prescribe one every morning, like a physician. 

I quantify my wishes

like a mathematician. 

How could you not know by now, 

that Im hiding by dreaming- 

I keep my feet on the fall 

like some keep their eye on the ball. 

but you know me, I dance with the forrest

because I fail to see beyond the trees.

I miss the colossal of giants, 

had I not been examining their knees. 

It all slips and slides in the butter of magic. 

But that's just a matter of opinion. 

and in every small day, there lies a large phenomenon, 

But that's just a matter of dominion. 

Where Have You Been All My LIfe?

Timing is a killer.

She has found us;

white knuckles and 

heavy breathed,

she has found us, 

incorrect. 

She has found us;

not in the same room,

she has found us ready

and overly groomed. 

She has found us;

fed us drops of poison, 

for two years long,

you chose the wrong cup,

you drank it up, you drank it up. 

Take your morning without a kiss;

Take it black,

with too much charm

   on ice,

too much harm 

   in parklife. 

My side of the door knob fell to the ground,

you couldn't get in 

and I couldn't get out. 

Paris Says So.

The Paris that killed us.
The Paris that gave us mouth to mouth.
The Paris that swallowed us whole,
   Whole like a trout.
The Paris that whispered,
    Spells like clear bells.
The Paris that took us to her breast,
   Then threw us out with the rest.
The Paris that tied the knot,
    of the blindfold-
    of the promise-
    of the noose-
that somehow, came loose.

The Paris that kept her hunting heart hungry,
hungry for meat,
grinning so wide,
blinded by teeth.

The Paris that took us away,
in every way, only to return,
our remains.

6 Month's Time

We were so close to love.

We rubbed elbows with it.

We knocked on the glass.

We took the fastest road

and then we decided,

just to pass. 

e. 

Time As A Construct.

Know these arms are bound tight with history,

Know the miles grow lonely with no victory.

Know that I watch the night birth hands,

and blindly search,

for the 'other' man.

I know your classical twist,

I know the way you've become a quiet

ventriloquist.

Know,

It's because we've got so much,

against us.

It's because we've got so much,

between us.

It's because we've got so much,

ahead of us.

It's because we've got so much.

GO FOR ME....

I sit soundlessly, polishing the silver of my thoughts- spot spot spots. I think endlessly of it. I check its pulse, my two fingers resting; monitoring, lightly yet calculating.

At this point, it's unlikely we will ever be friends again.

Life had taken us by the collar, up off the ground, against the wall and spat into our eyes.

There is so many dissimilar versions of the story, it no longer has us in it.

Oh, but remember when my hands found the stream of your neck and swam up. You were my first.

Oh,

Remember when we slept passed out, like starstruck ghosts on that couch bed in Portland. I got up to go the bathroom, and you grabbed my hand, your voice trailed from the pillow, "Go for me, will you?"

I thought about getting rid of those earrings you gave me. Only because I couldn't stand the sight of them parading around your absence.

Then, I began to wear them incessantly.

Secretly I hope they call to you, not like a tender tickle, but not unlike a searchlight.

Just a passing thought.

Not that I think we could find the organization to ever know one another again. Still, I wear you over my ears; Still, I wear you in the bucket of my heart.

The SIlence In Between.

In the evenings, when the sky has lowered her lids and the waning hours seems conspiratory- we must find new languages. I must see you dance to the rhythm- because that is the voice I understand. When I tell you that You sucked all the vulnerability out from the moment, what I meant to say is suddenly the chasm had swallowed me whole- and I need to hear the pin drop.
In the sappy mornings- when we are stuck to one another, when you are crusted to the sheets- I must run around frenetically and sparkle the exterior because I am failing to clean my interiors.
Find that new language with me. Always write on the walls and look me in the eyes that lie between the lines.

Brick By Brick....

You keep secrets,

as some keep bees-

with a padded suit,

so dangerously.

You put honey

on my cracked jaw;

You spread butter,

on all my flaws.

We have a new little life,

on the top floor.

we watch commuters

watch their watches,

we watch the sun

bow it's head into

the east river-

we wonder what

took us so god damned long.

Love reaches the ceilings higher,

Love sinks the walls in,

Love heats every corner,

Love stacks every brick,

Love is slowly closing in.

ANY OTHER WAY.

it's the death rattle of summer,

the wind pushes your fingers to flight-

drawing lines in the sand,

driving up the long line,

that riddles up the palm of my hand.

I watch you have your way with it.

The only way,

you would have it.

It's the last breath of a cool evening,

the roof tops and sky lines,

grieving-

I watch you:

sit in the same dark room,

black with tar,

black with teeth,

blacker than underneath.

I watch you have your way with it.

long as the night,

long as the day,

that you wouldn't have any other way.

BLINK AND YOU MIGHT MISS IT.

Just as I was falling asleep last night, I was reciting our small love affair, so quick, we blinked, and missed it.

remember the oranges, the smell that filled that rented apartment. I stood on the skateboard and you steadied me, we didn't have a lease- but we had our favorite beatle, we undressed in the afternoon, we made black pearls and we walked away.

and we both know silently,

it's better this way.

Like Your City.

You're like London itself-
Spread like spilled milk,
Expensive like dry cleaning,
traditional as tea-
Too long to get across
Too seen,
Too ancient in it's soul
Too royal to say no.

Yes, i knew you while I was in London,
As you are the city itself.

THE 2 HANDS OF HEAVEN.

I'll never be 24 again,

I bow my head.

(Christ, have mercy.)

I'll never again,

know your wordless hands,

or the way we speak fire when

they simply pass along me.

(In the name of salvation, we pray.)

I'll never set foot again,

over the thin graves,

of your thick powers-

alone in this hour.

(Thank be the Lord.)

I'll never again find our eyes;

dancing along the East River,

tripping along the subway stairs,

collapsing into bed fully clothed.

(Blessed be God for ever.)

It takes time.

It takes time.

It takes the time,

the time I can't spare-

for a little prayer.

We lift our broken hearts to the heavens-

(We lift them up.)